


The Future Starts Slow

by garnettrees



Category: Iron Man - All Media Types, X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Alternative Universe - FBI, BAMF Charles, Calm Down Erik, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Jewish Character, Charles Being Concerned, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Childhood Sweethearts, Erik Does Not Share Well, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, I know this story sounds dark, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Law Enforcement, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Linear Narrative, Poor Charles, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Erik, Protective Erik, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-06-04 13:54:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6660898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garnettrees/pseuds/garnettrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Xavier has survived abuse, the murder of his parents, and the car-cash that almost cost the lives of both himself and his cousin, Tony Stark. Now almost eighteen, Charles is distinguishing himself in the Behavioral Psychology department at MIT, determined to make his name into a symbol of what he is and what he knows, not merely of what's happened to him. His world has entered a predictable pattern, until a prison break and childhood promise converge to remind him that no man may dictate his own future, and the seeds that persist most strongly often start out slow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elly32](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elly32/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Let's review. Who's the last person who should be starting another story? There are probably a few people in line ahead of me but... yeah. *winces* Basically, I am going through some _insane_ family stuff right now involving the care of an elderly loved one.
> 
> To relax, I've been looking at my back-log of hand-written stuff and typing it up, since actual writing time is a bit scarce. This little baby is one of them-- something from back in August/December that I set aside because I didn't need another WIP. I still don't, but once a fic is on my hard drive, it's like money-- it burns a hole in my pocket. ^_~''
> 
> This story is dedicated to Carly, who suggested The Kill's "Future Starts Slow" in relation to [The Singer, Not The Song](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3526919/chapters/7757984). It was perfect, but it also inspired this story, too. 
> 
> As always, I can't thank you enough for taking the time to read my story (not to mention my blather). If I could bother you just a moment to comment or leave kudos, I would be very grateful. Feedback is a far more fundamental force than gravity, electricity, or magnetism! (Just don't tell Erik about that last one. ^_^)  
> Trigger Warnings: I'm always going to err on the side of caution, since I'm kind of squeamish myself. This story deals with child abuse, exploitation, emotional and psychological torture, and revenge killing. At the same time, I've tried to keep most of it 'off-screen'. It's mentioned, but not graphically depicted. Basically, if you can watch something like SVU, you'll be fine. (I've tried to stay a bit under the 'Criminal Minds' and 'Hannibal' thresholds but... I wouldn't say I haven't been influenced?) None of the violence/non-con takes place between Charles and Erik... he may be a ruthless psychopath, but Serial Killer!Erik has his chivalry. X-x I can promise a happy ending, within certain definitions of the term. I'm a hopeless romantic, after all... just not always a nice one. *halo* 

_You can holler, you can wail_  
You can swing, you can flail  
 You can fuck like a broken sail   
But I'll never give you up   
If I ever give you up my heart will surely fail.

And after all God can keep my soul  
 England have my bones   
But don't ever give me up   
I could never get back up  
when the future starts so slow  
-"Future Starts Slow" by The Kills

 

" _Ho-ly shit_ ," Marie says, following the observation up with a low whistle. Charles has been told his 'posh' accent makes the banal seem exotic, but he thinks his friend may have him beat. She has the type of cadence that makes even vulgarity sound like it's been dipped in honey, but right now her voice is unusually tense. 

"What?" he asks, snagging another french fry and not bothering to look up from his Nabokov. That's fair-- she's riveted on her phone. 

"Mind your language in front of the children," Gabrielle scolds, most likely so she can sound superior. Tony flicks ketchup at her in revenge.

" _Nineteen_ ," he reminds her, fingering the sparse 'love patch' of a beard he's been working on.

"Eighteen in three days," Charles chimes in absently, knowing his cousin likes the solidarity. 

" _Babies_ ," Gabrielle says, forever hiding a thin layer of envy from both herself and the two prodigies with whom she shares graduate classes. Without looking up, Xavier can tell she's already scanning the Student Union for someone more interesting to sit with. "You can't even drink yet."

"Guys!" Marie holds up a hand, emerald nail polish glittering almost neon in the stark lighting. 

"I can drink," Tony assures her, who has been to more frat keggers than Charles has fingers and toes. Not that Charles himself isn't presenting some competition, in spite of both incredibly boyish appearance and an actual fifteen month age deficit. "Trust me, babe, I can drink."

" _Guys!_ "

 

Charles looks up but, before he can address Marie, his eye catches on the flatscreen mounted in the nearby corner. It's been running afternoon talk shows-- volume mercifully down-- since they came in, but it looks like the local news has jumped in. Interrupting your regularly scheduled programming. Charles stares, agape, at the caption under an exterior shot of Woodhaven Psychiatric Hospital. The feed is live, and the parking lot of the dreary institution is crowded with emergency vehicles. 

**CONVICTED MURDERER ERIK LEHNSHERR ESCAPES**.

Suddenly, his lungs are burning for air, and Xavier realizes he hasn't been breathing since the moment he registered the name. He starts to push back and wheel away from the table, but a crowd is already gathering near the television, making the typically treacherous food court impossible to navigate. 

" _See?_ " Marie drawls from beside him and a million miles away. Her voice sounds like one of those weird radio broadcasts you accidentally pick up when crossing state lines.

 

Bracing his elbows on the arms of his wheelchair, Charles cranes his neck as much as possible to see past the gathering number of onlookers. He catches a flash of a mugshot, and then his own picture. First Grade, Essex Academy, age six. _'G-d,'_ his brain supplies inanely, _'those uniforms were truly hideous, and far too militant looking for such young children.'_ He's biting his lip so hard it bleeds.

"Here." Marie's zebra-print cellphone is thrust helpfully into his hands. "It's online, too." The red-head will never have a great claim on maternal instinct, but he can tell her concern is escalating quickly. A lot of his friends tend to be older grad-students, and female ('chick magnet,' Tony teases), which means he sometimes gets a weird side of 'mothering' along with sexual chemistry's main dish. It's the eyes, apparently, or the lips or the cheeks, depending on who you ask. 'You just look so innocent!' one date had told him, frowning when he laughed a bit too long. Presently, Xavier smiles at his friend in weak thanks, but he can't maintain eye contact. In truth, he can't look at anything save the current photo of Erik provided by the police. Dully, he realizes that same old school portrait of his is on the website, too. He's always hated that picture, but it's hard to care right now. An older Erik stares up at him from the smart-phone screen. Tall, jaw set, and lips mostly lost under a clipped but definite beard. They didn't even trust him with a shaving razor, so it would seem. He's grown into his lanky shoulders, but those eyes are just the same over the aquiline nose. Green, like time that has conquered and eroded bronze; green like an angry, hurricane-chaos sea.

 

"Fuck me with a rusty spoon!" Tony groans. He has his own unreleased model StarkPhone out in two seconds flat. "Why are they dragging you into this?"

' _Because I deserve it,'_ Charles thinks, but says nothing. Erik's eyes view the unfortunate photographer with imperial disdain. I know the system you serve, they seem to say, and I have judged it wanting.

"I'm calling the lawyers," his cousin says, raising his voice and glaring daggers at anyone who turns around to look at Charles. Gabrielle is staring at Xavier open-mouthed, but not the way she did after his presentation on the fallacies of the MacDonald triad. Then, she'd been impressed by his erudition and somewhat surprised by the actual applause he received. Right now, you'd think _he_ is a case passed around in Abnormal Psychology, or a sample trapped under a slide. Like something that might come off on your hands, if you aren't careful.

Weakly, Charles makes some sort of protest even he doesn't fully register, knowing Tony has already placed the call.

"If I don't, Obie will," Stark reminds, with what sounds like actual adult reasoning. "This is why we retain those bastards in the first place." Then, trying for his usual sangfroid; " _I'm_ why they're on speed-dial."

For appearance's sake, Charles scrolls down a few times on the phone screen, as though reading the article. He doesn't need to. Everyone thinks they know what happened that night, and they never get a damned thing right. He hands Marie's cellphone back with a visibility trembling hand. 

 

There's a lot of staring going on now. Not one in ten of these people would have recognized Charles Xavier, MIT _wunderkind_ as  that Charles Xavier, but the news-channel has oh-so-helpfully dug up one of those entertainment 'reporters' who so enjoy rehashing Tony's exploits. It's Charles' turn to get the treatment, though. They have pictures from Tony's sixteenth birthday: the wreck of the Aston Martin, candids of Charles leaving the hospital in his wheelchair. There's another more recent shot of he and Tony crossing Killian Court, both of them oblivious. Charles has a mountain of textbooks in his lap, while his cousin multi-tasks between the Starbucks carrier and ruffling Xavier's hair.

"Well, what do we _pay_ you people for?" Stark roars into his phone, having obviously seen the picture too. They have a caption under Charles' photo: _The Tragic Young Genius and Billionaire_. 

Gabrielle is still staring. She says, "You… I didn't realize--"

 

At times like this, when it feels like the anger and frustration are too big for his body, when he wants to yell 'none of you understand!', Charles' feet itch. Physiologically impossible, given his injuries, but there it is. It's a psychosomatic thing, his brain's rather unoriginal way of saying, 'You'll never be able to fix this.'

He knows he'll be avoiding Gabrielle in the future-- if she doesn't avoid him first-- but he still gives her his most gentle and understanding smile. It takes a little doing, but less than one might imagine. Charles may get angry, but he's a hard person to actually hurt. Half of his smile lies in the fact people believe their opinion could ever possibly wound him, after all he's been through.

"I'm so sorry, Charles," Marie whispers, leaning down. She's so genuinely distraught the 'I'm' comes out 'Ah'm'. "I had no idea it had any personal--"

"And we're out of here," Tony says in a cheery, tourist-guide voice so fake its painful. Obviously without thinking, he takes hold of the handles on Charles' wheelchair-- one of the few things Xavier really can't stand. The younger man slaps his breaks on decisively. On television, the newscast has moved onto the state of the four bodies the night of Erik's arrest and, of course, what the police found on both Shaw and Marko's computers. 

"I'm not an invalid." He doesn't mean to snap at Tony, who he knows is already swimming in self-blame, but his head is pounding and he can't think. He can't think past the memory of Marko's hot, alcohol-sodden breath on the back of his neck, all monstrous gruntings and sweaty hands in the shadows thrown by his dinosaur night-light.

Past the roaring in his ears, he says to Marie, "It's alright-- you weren't to know."

 

"Charles," Tony's voice is gentle, hands up to indicate non-interference with his cousin's mobility. He waves the one holding the cellphone. "Let me call Happy. He can be here in five minutes. We should split."

"I have two more classes, and you have lab," Charles says, calmly hating this. Hating that they-- the ubiquitous John and Jane Q Public 'they'-- are going to make his life their business and warp the story for their own entertainment. Where was their ravenous interest, the faux-concern and thinly-veiled eagerness for scandal, when he and Erik _really_ needed help?

_'You deserve this, runt,'_ Cain's ghost whispers. _'You deserve all this, the accident, and _more_. How do you pay for four dead bodies?'_

"It doesn't matter," Tony says, alive and in the present.

Xavier shakes his head. "It matters to me."

 

In the end, Charles has his way, as he always does when it comes to Tony. It's hardly fair, and he tries not to take advantage of it but, at the end of the day, there it is. The tabloids can speculate and Stain can frown mightily, working their own venomous scalpels under the Stark heir's armor, but the simple truth is the wreck that paralyzed Charles was just as much an accident as the one that killed Maria and Howard. 

People wander around, bemoaning fate, asking why bad things happen to good people. Xavier, with a restraint honed from more than ten years of keeping secrets and a clever veneer of patience, holds his tongue. He wants to say that bad things happen because they happen; because it's easy to get crushed in the clockwork of the universe. Moreover, there are _things_ disguised as people who take a great deal of pleasure in doing some crushing of their own. They like human suffering-- it's like Mount Everest, or art for art's sake. Adults tell children there are no monsters in the dark; people blithely, foolishly ask, 'what's the worst that could happen?'. 

Charles knows, and understands the caveat that comes with such knowledge.

No one would believe you if you told them.

 

Such hidden cynicism aside, Charles is still just as surprised as anyone when a detail of local cops and three FBI Agents from the BAU show up to escort him from class the next morning.

  


[ * * * * * * * * * ]  


From _The Associated Press_ News-ticker, 365 ____ LiveNews Dot Com:

SACANDAGA COUNTY, NY-- Woodhaven Psychiatric and Correctional Facility reports escape of convicted serial killer Erik Magnus Lehnsherr in the early hours September 27th, 20--. The fugitive, convicted of the 20-- murders of Sebastian Shaw, Mr. and Mrs. Kurt Marko and their teenage son, is considered armed and dangerous. Escape occurred during routine prisoner transfer to facility upstate. Two corrections officers (names currently withheld) have been confirmed dead, as well as Senior Staff Psychiatrist William Stryker Jr. State. Local officials report horrendous crime scene, and assure public they are doing everything in their power to recapture this dangerous individual. Lehnsherr is described as a white caucasian male, 6'0 and approximately 170 pounds, with brown hair and green eyes. Last seen wearing navy prison cover-alls, reported to have a beard. No tattoos, distinguishing marks include significant scaring on back. A 2003 black Toyota Camry was discovered missing from the parking lot. Any and all tips to… 

 

From _The Blue Creek Daily Ledger_ , September 28th 20--:

BLUE CREEK, NY (OP ED)-- For months, this paper has covered the gradual closure of Woodhaven Psychiatric and Correctional Facility, one of the cornerstones of this town's economy. Defunded by state legislature citing budget issues, Woodhaven-- which has served both our local jurisdiction and many under-equipped municipalities throughout New England-- has been gradually transferring patients and prisoners to other hospitals upstate, as available 'beds' are found. As the lay-offs and cessation of service contracts with other local businesses continue, the legislature seems deaf to the 'ripple effect' overtaking Blue Creek. Adding insult to injury, this callus politicking has now also endangered not only the financial well-being of our fair citizens, but their very lives. As already reported by the AP, convicted serial killer Erik Lehnsherr escaped custody during a 'routine' prisoner transfer on September 27th, 20--. Many of our readers will remember Lehnsherr as the nine year-old 'baby-faced' killer who callously slew three adults and one teenager in an upscale residential building in New York City's Upper West Side. Convicted in 20--, Mr. Lehnsherr's death-sentence was commuted to life in a maximum-security psychiatric facility due to both his age and certain revelations regarding allegations of sexual abuse suffered at the hands of his guardian, Sebastian Shaw. Legal battles in regards to the reputation, estate, and accounting practices of the late Schmidt & Sons' CEO are ongoing to this day. The judicial system which-- in the opinion of many-- failed to hand down a just verdict has now compounded their error in conjunction with the legislature's disregard for this city. They have given a convicted felon the opportunity to roam loose amongst the very people who once assisted in his incarceration. It is this reporter's opinion…

  
[ * * * * * * * * * ] 

  
"We want you to understand that this is only a precaution, Mr. Xavier," Agent Summers says, looking ill at ease in the cream-and-chrome living room of what Tony calls their 'hoppin' baby genius bachelor pad'.

Charles nods absently, sipping at the Earl Grey tea Happy was kind enough to fetch for him. Neither the bodyguard nor his technical employer are pleased by the FBI's intrusion, and they aren't making an effort to hide it. Happy Hogan is propped up against the wall, impressive arms crossed, face communicating whole paragraphs about people who dare question his ability to protect his charges, thank you _very_ much. Tony is sprawled on the sofa opposite, limbs loosely akimbo in a way that Charles knows from experience actually means that his cousin is tensed to pounce. Stark is a whole-hearted believer in the cobra approach-- strike quickly, but pretend you're just obliviously sunning yourself until then. Or, obliviously playing _Leprechaun Martini Smash_ (Tony's 'improvement' on _Candy Crush_ ) at maximum volume, as the case may be. It's actually contributing to Xavier's ferocious migraine, but it's also very clearly irritating the three federal agents, so the young man lets it go.

 

Agent Drake-- a strapping blond man with a gregarious yet somehow distant demeanor-- comes up behind his colleague, as if to present a united front. Scott Summers adjusts his dark glasses and coughs, seemingly casting about for his train of thought. Xavier feels a brief pang of sympathy; it's hard to think past the arcade-game music and sound of Leprechauns cackling. 

"We'll try to make our presence as unobtrusive as possible," Summer finishes somewhat lamely. 

_'This is the part,'_ Charles chides internally, _'where you tell me you're doing this for my own good.'_ People, especially authority figures, love that line-- and they never put an ounce of thought into it. After all, Shaw claimed to have Erik's best interests at heart when he adopted the boy all those years ago. Few could construe such nonsense as aligning with what actually happened. And how many times had Xavier's own mother declared that having a father-figure, a brother, and a 'real' family, would be so 'healthy' for Charles?

_'Bitterness is not productive,'_ Xavier continues his inward monologue, aware that he is essentially talking back to himself. All the same, he finds the three agents looking at him, searching his face for signs of fear or unease, and wants to ask them if they have any idea what Kurt Marko was _like_. Do they think the potential for a fatal knife swipe across the throat worries him that much now? 

 

_(It doesn't. Charles has lain skin-to-skin with his own mortality too many times for it to have any profound impact now. But, below that, where the child still lives in his quivering mouse-guise, he *does* worry. He wonders if his best friend is angry with him-- if he's hurt, or disappointed, or maybe just lost.)_

 

"Would you mind turning that down, Mr. Stark?" the third agent asks, covering the fraying ends of her patience with chill civility. This is the agent Charles is having trouble with. Eye contact is an important indicator of truthfulness in situations like these-- that's a basic from good ol' Psych 101. Xavier knows what the agents will be primed for, whether they're consciously suspicious or not. Tony is just wound up and territorial-- but they don't know that, and it's not helping the situation. Still, Charles finds his gaze sliding over and away from Moira McTaggart, and that is very unwise.

How she's changed! Of course, she's doubtless thinking the same thing about him. Twelve years ago, she was an NYPD detective responding to a murky report of four people slain, and he was the six-year-old whose very survival didn't jive with the rampage everyone wanted to see. The whole situation is like some morbid and wildly inappropriate game of 'This Is Your Life'. There's just the slightest streak of gray at McTaggart's temples, and the faint suggestion of lines around her mouth. All that grim determination takes its toll, but she's still beautiful woman. Clearly ambitious, too; climbing from freshly-minted detective to the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. That she's been assigned here due to her familiarity with the case has not been explicitly stated, but it rings loud in the silence all the same. 

 

"I _do_ mind," Tony replies, with that relentless passive-aggressive cheerfulness. "I mind you guys using my little cousin as bait a _lot_." In moods like these, Tony is all about accompanying hand-gestures; big motions to encompass the sheer idiocy of whomever he is arguing with. 

Drake frowns, "We--"

"Vegas odds would have had Lehnsherr heading for the Canadian border, yes/no? Any sensible escapee would do the same." Stark doesn't pause long enough to take a breath, let alone give someone a chance to answer. "Instead, he's heading in the opposite direction. He's been loose a little over thirty-six hours, but he's not exactly lying low, is he? What's the body count now, four?"

"Five," Happy offers, pleased to contribute to the difficulty. "That the police have officially admitted."

"Busy boy," Tony says, affecting mock thoughtfulness. "He's no slouch, is he? GED, associates degree, and working on a bachelor's-- all thanks to our lovely penal system. The man's been in jail since he was nine, you'd think he'd be ill at ease on the outside. But nope, he's cunning. Crazy like a fox."

 

_'Crazy like a Liopleurodon,'_ Charles corrects privately. Erik used to love dinosaurs, particularly the aquatic kind that could easily pass for sea-monsters. They used to spend hours in the public library, curled up in some obscure corner with a stack of books while one of the seemingly endless au pairs availed herself of the shops around Grand Central Station. Sometimes, Erik would lean close to him in the subway, whispering about where they might run away to, if only they got off at some unknown and exotic stop. Or, closer to home, they'd linger in the Natural History Museum, where Erik would endlessly sketch fossils with his lip caught between his teeth, always making sure to do any Charles requested.

 

The foolishness of his wool-gathering becomes apparent as Xavier realizes that the conversation has gone on without him-- and promptly gotten out of hand.

"--irresponsible speculation, no better than the tabloids, while the Bureau is doing everything in its power to protect your cousin--" Summers' voice booms. It's not shouting, exactly, but its a near thing. Drake, standing at his cohort's side, seems to be struggling to contain his own body language-- his muscles flex beneath his unremarkable suit jacket. Tony has that effect on people.

"--and, if our friendly neighborhood psycho just happens to take a stroll down memory lane, then hey!" Tony is still on a roll. He's abandoned his phone so he can utilize both hands for illustrative pointing. At least they haven't devolved into rude gestures… yet. On the couch, the Starkphone is still blaring as Tony's leprechauns die, splattering on the screen. "Score for the FBI! Minimize use of resources, physical danger for the agents--"

"You do realize that Lehnsherr has to go through us to get to Charles, right?" Drake throws in. 

"Like I don't see your 'super-sekrit' unmarked van parked down the street," Tony rolls is eyes, and it turns out they *have* reached the rude-gesture portion of the proceedings. Brilliant. "Trust me, I have Stark Industries lawyers chomping at the bit to come down on you if you so much as breathe on SI's communications infrastructure."

"Gentlemen," Moira begins, obviously letting that word stand in for 'children', and just as obviously being ignored. "Please--"

 

Taking a deep breath, Charles stops rubbing at his aching temple and instead uses his fingers to produce a piercing whistle, just as Erik taught him. All eyes inevitably turn to him. 

"This round is over," he says in his gentlest, most reasonable tone. "Everyone back to your corners." 

"Can I get you some advil, sir?" Happy asks, clearly noticing Charles' pale countenance. In addition to his cheerful nickname, 'Happy' Hogan also possesses that rare and fortunate ability to express solicitude without pity. One of the reasons, Xavier often imagines, Aunt Maria hired him. Though he was her bodyguard long before he became Tony's, he was also 'passed down' to the boy well before her death. In both cases, Happy has given care and confidence far beyond any job description, and he extends his duties to include Charles despite the fact there's never been any official assignment. He's fond of his charge's younger cousin, unruffled by the colorful pasts of either boy, and he manages to guard without hovering. Right now, Charles is ready to give the man a medal. 

"Thank you, Happy," Xavier says, smile genuine if a bit fatigued. "You," pointing at Tony with a sternness he is already struggling to maintain. "Need to stop being a troublemaker." Predictably, Tony's over-acted innocence and waggling eyebrow make Charles want to laugh-- Stark's patented method for escaping innumerable punishments. Turning quickly, he finds his humor inwardly vanishing at the tripled, suit-clad expressions he's receiving. Hopefully the remnants of his own chuckles keep the drop in his stomach from showing on his face. Do they-- McTaggart, Drake, and Summers-- _know_ how they're looking at him? Given the preponderance of gleaming, reflective surfaces in the room, ignorance seems impossible. One would think, however, that anyone from the Behavior Analysis Unit would be more circumspect about non-verbal cues. That they are somewhat suspicious of-- and puzzled by-- Charles is hardly shocking, and the young man sees no reason to pretend he isn't acutely aware of this. At the same time, it is important to avoid even a whiff of defiance or defensiveness; Tony has the former locked up all on his own. Charles

_(… is guilty in his own way…_  
'Guilty,' echoing again in that horrible gasp Kurt used to make, hot and wet against the ear. Then, the child Xavier once was, howling and abandoned;  
oh, Erik, Erik, why couldn't you have _told_ me first?)

was never charged with anything when the whole sordid mess splashed across the front pages the first time. By the time the ink was drying on the adoption papers, Howard Stark had achieved the not-inconsiderable feat of sealing the juvenile record of a six-year old. Doubtless, that prohibition doesn't extend to the FBI, and Xavier is equally certain they've already helped themselves to the records of his treatment under Dr. McCoy, and the regular Social Services evals thereafter. Another phone call can probably get them Charles' internet search history for the past two years, for all the good that will do them.  
He doesn't have anything to hide. For himself.

 

Not that anyone will ever believe that, even if they think he's completely innocent. They always want _more_ , there's always some detail he must be withholding, something that will let them dig it all back up. It had been the social scandal and crime of the decade: 'Adoptee Slays Affluent Foster Parent!', continued on page three. There hadn't been a person in the city who didn't have a strong opinion about it, one way or the other, and the press had been _wild_.  


_'And why not?'_ the adult Charles thinks ruefully. It had all the right ingredients. A ritzy address, multiple bodies, a shocking perpetrator, and a crime scene that looked like Picasso had decided to try finger-painting and spirograph at once. Top it all off with a lone, 'cherubic' survivor (the papers' description, which Xavier will likely never live down) and a tangled web of sex, lies, and financial shenanigans to boot. If you'd pitched it to Hollywood, the producers would have said it strained credulity-- too much for the audience to parse out. As a modern day version of a bloody colosseum match, right smack-dab in the middle of the nascent Reality TV movement, it had been ratings gold.

 

"Geeze, Charles," Tony says, finally rummaging amongst the couch cushions to put the leprechauns out of their misery. It's amazing how much quieter the room gets, especially considering the slim, compact form of the StarkPhone. "You _are_ really pale. It's been a long-ass day. I promise I can play nice with the Fibees if you need to lie down."

Before any of the agents can begin their doubtless smooth-but-strident protests, Xavier once more holds up that peaceable hand. Tony makes fun of the gesture sometimes, saying it looks like Charles is perpetually trying to half-heartedly hail a cab. At this point, he doesn't think he'd turn one down even if it did dubiously materialize in the living room. Ensuring his sigh exists only inwardly, Charles makes deliberate eye contact with each of his guests, his smile a little wan even as he shifts not the slightest under their triplicate gaze. Summers hasn't taken his sunglasses off in the handful of hours since Charles made his acquaintance, but it's really the muscles around the eyes that give an impression of emotion therein. The glasses-- expensive, meticulously kept-- do not conceal quite as much as they would to those the investigator is used to dealing with. These smokey lenses reflect back twin seventeen year-olds, each in khakis and burgundy sweater-vest, their deep auburn hair just a bit unkempt from the long day. An unnecessary reminder, these portable mirrors. Charles know exactly what he looks like; a soft academic, a boy playing professor dress-up. Others may shrink from their reflections, but he has long since learned to accept the discordance between what _is_ and what is merely perceived. How many classmates and academic advisors see the same thing? A no street-smarts brainiac whose innocuous nature is only exacerbated by the wheelchair. His white shirt-sleeves hide the significant upper-body muscle gained since the accident and-- as many a tipsy college girl has told him-- he has been endowed with truly irresistible baby-blues. 

Agent Drake seems to be the most impartial member of Xavier's current audience-- for him, the jury is still out. Moira's professionalism is a well-crafted nacre, only faintly mired by compassion for the boy she knew years ago. All three behavior analysts are perplexed by Charles continued existence, not by any personality trait or action he has exhibited so far. They are suspicious because they are trained to be so, no 'innocent until proven guilty' here, but the distrust is merely on the 'default' setting at present. If a more appealing scenario and profile are presented-- with the utmost subtlety, of course-- then they'll go with it. It's only Moira, who was there that night, who saw how Erik howled and raged when they put Charles in the ambulance, who has any personal feelings about the matter. She's had a decade to set the narrative in her mind, but Charles thinks something may still be bothering her. Something has probably _always_ bothered her about the Lehnsherr case. Is there some incongruous detail fluttering back there, behind that template of cosmetic-like compassion on her face, that her mind is worrying the same way tiger paces the breadth of its cage? 

 

_('Remember what I always told you?' Cain's voice oozes, guttural. Putrefaction must be hell on the throat. 'Run all you want, little Chuckie. There's no time limit on _our_ games of hide-and-seek.' The phantom croaking is joined by Kurt's-- we've got it for you in stereo, now;  
'That creepy fucker might just gut you like a fish. Ready or not, here he comes.')_

_'He might,'_ Charles admits to both himself and his ghosts, almost as serene as he's outwardly pretending to be. _'But Erik will make it quick.'_ If he's cross with Charles, if there are accounts which must be settled, then Xavier can count on his old friend to be fair. That's what always terrified John and Jane Q. Public about the case, from the very beginning.  
Merciless, vindictive, relentless… but fair.

"As uncomfortable as some of these questions may be, I understand that this stems from more than an academic interest," Charles says sincerely, wheeling forward to accept two advil and a shortbread cookie from Happy-- who, in his opinion, just about deserves sainthood at this point. Having cleared the coffee table, he stays where he is, eliminating all physical barriers between himself and the investigators. Another indicator of truthfulness, along with relaxed posture and natural blinking rhythm. Of course, the analysts will be just as familiar with these little tricks, if not more so, as Xavier is. Drake and MacTaggart are blinking rather a bit themselves, perhaps surprised to hear something from their script issuing from the mouth of the interviewee. 

"You're trying to save lives," he continues. "There's an immediacy to this which we mustn't lose sight of. I want to help you." He flicks one of what Tony calls his 'professorial' glances over at said guilty party. "We both do, in any way we can." The inevitable attempt at commentary is overridden with self-deprecating humor, focusing back on his guests. "I'm sure you can understand a certain level of default paranoia on our part, though, given both Stark Industries' general experience with espionage and our own… encounters with the tabloids."

"Mr. Xavier," Agent Summer says, "The FBI is not a tabloid newspaper. We can keep a secret." One must give the man props for a straight face-- eased, no doubt, by innumerable threats neutralized of which the public will never be aware. Still, Charles appreciates Tony laughing, so he doesn't have to.

"Government security is notoriously behind the times," the Stark heir says, punctuating with that decisive finger. "You impede free-market innovation and leave the consumer over-exposed simply because you don't want anyone to come up with something _you_ can't hack." Obviously, the young inventor isn't at all bitter about the resistance he's received regarding the secure retail platform he developed over summer break. "Really cheeses you off when amateur spooks out-spook you, doesn't it?"

This time, Xavier doesn't interrupt. He wants to see who will rise to the bait and, while no one technically does, there are still enlightening shifts in those standard-issue professional miens. Drake is annoyed, having swallowed the flashy placebo of Tony's public persona hook, line, and sinker. Moira's eyes are narrowed, accessing, but it's Agent Summers who looks like he _wants_ to react. It isn't a matter of locking horns with another alpha buck, as if might be if Drake were riled. This one-- Scott, if Charles remembers correctly-- is strictly by-the-book. What he resents is the chaos Tony seems to embody. Whether he believes in what he's doing, and believes his vaunted rules apply to him, remains to be seen. 

 

_("They don't care if what they're doing is bad," Erik whispers, cradling the flashlight between chin and shoulder so he can look at Charles' back. His hands, sticky with expired ointment filched from the medicine cabinet, trace lightly over the long welts as though following cuneiform or braille. Outside the narrow confines of the closet, the day is one of brilliant sunshine and the constant ambient syncopation of Upper West Side traffic, and everyone knows Charles and Erik have gone to play in his room (even if 'everyone' only qualifies as Cain, the cook, and the au pair). All the same, it feels better to be in here, close and secret and dark. The illusion of being safe.  
Charles winces-- not at the ointment's sting but at the hard edge in his friend's voice-- when Erik says, "They only care if they get _caught_.")_

 

"I could slip into your system and stir it like a hopped up Ninja blender-- not that that's a true testament of ease," Tony presses on. "After all, I _am_ a genius."

"A genius who would not look good in correctional orange," the younger cousin remonstrates, with yet another significant look. 

"Perhaps we might go somewhere a bit more… conducive to this discussion," Moira interjects, very clearing trying not to sound pleading. Xavier wouldn't blame her if she's developing a stress headache too. "You're in a unique position to help us, Charles, given your chosen specialty. Please don't think we aren't eager to take advantage of every resource we have."

"And I'm sure you'll understand if our questions are a bit more… thorough," Summers adds, essentially sealing his stance.

"My study, if you don't mind-- my migraines make me rather photosensitive." And, despite the beastly pain, this one will help with the constant involuntary tics the body exhibits unless being held rigid in defensiveness. After finishing off his tea, he demurs, "I certainly don't have your experience but, with the caveat that I knew Erik only as a child, I'd be happy to answer any questions you have."

"You underestimate yourself, Charles. Your advisors have nothing but the highest of praise for you and," Moira's use of his first name and her smile of encouragement do nothing to dilute the gravity of her next statement, "you knew Lehnsherr when these pathologies were developing. When his love-map was being formed and set."

_'And what about _Shaw's_ pathologies, or Marko's?' Charles wonders, pretending the rising bile is just the aftertaste of advil. _'What about men who insulate themselves with money and power, and prey on little boys?'__

_"Well then. Maybe," careful, careful, not _too_ ingratiating, "You can help me tease out details I may not have recognized as significant.  
There's nothing like an alternative perspective." _

  
[ * * * * * * * * * ] 

__

__Photographs corral time._ _

__When the technology was new, it inspired awe and sometimes a little fear. Familiarity is, after all, the veil which obscures the true identity of many things from mankind. This supernatural aspect has gotten lost in ubiquity, but nothing changes the fact that a camera is really its own type of temporal knife. The snapping off of a moment, leaving a murky past and a completely truncated future. Who can tell, from just that image, what will happen to those depicted? How much of the past, the loss behind a smile or feuds between those with arms linked, can be divined, from just that instant? Atmosphere and subconscious cues are reduced to two dimensions, mirroring the viewer's expectations like glossy photo paper itself. Context is everything, and so the picture of a stranger-- especially those black and white faces of decades past-- can inspire discomfort.  
Signs and portents. Antique vestiges of someone else's life. _ _

___This_ photograph is a polaroid, situated not in an album, but in a cardboard box currently moldering in the subbasement of a New York City evidence archive. It is dog-eared in its initialed, sealed plastic bag-- wear from a time when it was a boy's treasure, and not one of the many items enumerated for handling by CSI. No date or notation on the textured white tab, just little skid marks from having been slotted into and shimmied out of the space between lining and frame of a box-spring. _ _

__Here is the picture, brilliant in its understated poignancy, which was by no means the intention of the photographer. A young boy perhaps four or five (he is actually six, quite small for his age) seated on the faded yellow bulk of a sabertooth tiger statue, the feature of some museum or park. In the distance, a cluster of trees fails to entirely obscure a view of the river and, while the boy is looking away from the camera, his striking blue eyes are not fixed on that distant scene. No, his pale and sparingly freckled face is more than a profile, tilted ever so slightly downward. A tiny furrow in his brow seems to indicate he has blocked out the world to better examine his own thoughts. He is the type of child who seems semi-mythical, a porcelain moppet who has stepped blithely off your grandmother's curio-laden shelves. An escapee from the full-color plate of an illustrated Bible or book of Fairy Tales. Well-kept, well-dressed; brown curls with just a hint of auburn, oxfords and white shoes, khaki shorts and a polo that likely cost a ridiculous sum at some boutique that also sells miniature bow ties._ _

__It's easy to disregard these 'preppy' overtones, to forgive him without even realizing you've done so, simply due to the unguarded honesty in his expression. Those blue eyes, like smelted victorian glass, are the working definition of 'old soul'. It's clear he is not saddened by the denial of some treat or pouty, or absorbed in playful imaginings. 'Melancholy' is the word which has sprung to mind for many a viewer, but is a child complex enough to conceive of or bear such an emotion? Yes, and no. This is only a moment and, beyond the realm of this picture, he has gone off to play, or smile at the photographer, or cry when a fall from a tree scares him more than it actually hurts._ _

__Yet here, in this little window, one can see the dejected set of shoulders, the scattered and faint bruising on his arms and legs. He must be a very active child, for all the delicate features which will someday become timelessly handsome. One might even notice the scratch on his cheek, or the way his posture suggests he would like to make himself smaller than himself.  
Poor little rich boy. And, after all, many children are simply shy._ _

__

__Beyond this image, on the other side-- which, in reality, is only an unhelpful square of black-- is this:_ _

__The camera Erik Lehnsherr (not Erik Shaw, _never_ Shaw) uses to take this picture is stolen. Or rather, 'borrowed without permission', which is about the same thing. It's a simple polaroid that belongs to the man who has adopted him._ _

___('I _own_ you, boy. Lock, stock, and barrel.')__ _

__One of easily dozens of cameras, and certainly not the finest. Mr. Shaw has been known to drop several grand on fancy digitals, but he says polaroids make him 'nostalgic'. There was a time, he tells Erik, when you had to make do with them, unless you wanted some unappreciative photo tech to call the cops. Or you had to develop your own-- so time-consuming!00 and you traded these in sleazy hotels with other, like-minded 'aficionados'. Now there's photoshop and other apps to transfer your pictures, and the internet to distribute them with. Life in the 21st Century! Even though the market is flooded, everything is so much more _lucrative_. Erik is, according to Shaw, a real BoyzVid hit._ _

__The camera was in a cabinet in Shaw's study, and-- while its the one room in the penthouse Erik is not responsible for cleaning-- the boy waited until after a fresh round of house-keeping to take it. He's learned the hard way that Sebastian Shaw has the eyes of a hawk; he can tell if something has been moved even by millimeters, and he _knows_ when grubby little boys forget their place. Consequently, Erik spent a half and hour after Shaw left for work staring into the open cabinet, memorizing the exact placement of his target. Without dust, there's one less thing to give him away. He also took off his shoes and socks, sticking to the rug and wiping off the doorknob, because he's not even supposed to set foot in the office unless Shaw is in a 'naughty school-boy mood'._ _

__Erik is well aware that stealing is against the rules. Not only is it a _mitzvah_ , it is also a Commandment from G-d. A rule with a capital 'R'. All the same, he doesn't bother about it much. In this 'new life' (a term Shaw and his adult friends, along with the occasional bribe-accepting social worker, love to use), much of what was once completely true has been suspended indefinitely. Once, he would have shied away from even this temporary theft, for fear of G-d's anger. Now he isn't sure if there _is_ a G-d, and if there is then Erik would stick his tongue out at the big, parent-killing jerk, _and_ the rules He expects everyone else to follow while He does whatever he wants himself. This is called 'hypocrisy', a word Erik learned from Charles, and the world is lousy with it. Though he's two grades below Erik-- just a baby, really-- Charles Xavier is an amazing brain, but he's almost never a dink about it._ _

__

__It's because of Charles that Erik has taken the camera. There's always a risk of being caught by Shaw and punished_ _

___('I'll make you _wish_ you were dead,' the impossibly tall man growls. He is a monster from the deepest reaches of the closet-- he casts a shadow over the nine year old's entire life.  
Erik, with blood in his mouth and blood trickling down his back-- if he's lucky-- thinks, 'Yeah, too late.')__ _

__but Erik has decided it's worth it. It's always taken him a little more effort to stay ahead in math, but he's easily picked up something besides double-digit division and simple fractions in the last year and a half. The arithmetic of survival now comes as naturally as breathing. More naturally than video games even, because he can only ever play at Charles' place if both Cain and Kurt are out. Mostly he gives it a miss, 'cause he knows it they aren't his friend's favorite, or he makes sure to put on puzzle or adventure games. In the past year and a half, he's discovered that many things, when stacked against Charles' pleased smile or quickly-muffled whoop of delight, just don't seem as important as they might have once._ _

__Charles, Erik's _Myschka_ , is pretty much the only thing he has left that is truly important. Long ago, when Mama was alive, she had a heart-shaped tin that said 'Special Treasures' on the lid, which she had gotten _way_ back when she was a little girl. And she did keep important things in it; Bubbeh's old necklace, a little stuffed bunny, a lock from Erik's very first haircut. Erik doesn't have a heart-box (if he did, Shaw would only smash it, aside from it being kind of a girly thing to have anyway), and most of the things he'd thought were important were lost in the same fire that took what really mattered-- Mama and Abba. Erik doesn't even know if people can be 'special treasures', since you definitely can't tuck them away in a tin someplace safe, but he doesn't care. He'd never tell the other boy as much-- that would be weird and, again, kind of girly-- it's true all the same._ _

__What Erik wants is just a picture. He'll hide it in the box-spring, and maybe it will help on days when he can't see Charles. Days when either one of them is too much of a mess to go to school, or when Shaw decides it's a 'play weekend', or when Erik has to go on a hunting trip with him. (Killing small furry animals and collecting old scary flags and weapons are Shaw's _other_ hobbies.) Plus, there's always a chance Charles might get sick enough to need a hospital again, or be taken away by his mom if she ever figures out what Marko is doing to her only son. Shaw threatens all the time to take Erik someplace else, or just not let him play with Charles, but he knows what the other man really wants is for Marko to agree to a trade. Shaw says he and Kurt share a 'predilection', which Erik guesses is kind of like being in a club. So far, the two men have only swapped pictures and videos. They're still feeling each other out, not quite convinced of this fortunate coincidence, though Marko has been boasting about someone who keeps a 'stable' outside the city. It _is_ a coincidence, simple as that-- they only met because Erik wanted so badly to talk to the fascinating, haunted creature that lives one floor above him. _ _

__"Do you ever know how to pick 'em, my boy," Shaw had said, ruffling Erik's hair. He says he ought to take his little piece of ass to a mall and sit him out somewhere with a red lollipop-- it would be like flies to honey. He'd been so pleased with his new 'connection' and possible access to Marko's stepson that he'd let his own adopted toy off easy that night. If that makes Shaw and Marko club members, brothers of a kind, Erik figures that makes he and Charles their own special brotherhood-- just they two._ _

__

__Today is the perfect opportunity for a picture. It's a spring Saturday, Shaw has a contract to close, and Charles _au pair_ has agreed to take them to the park. Honestly, Erik almost forgets his plan; he gets so wrapped up in trying to teach Charles to shoot hoops, and then in watching the Big Kids skateboard. Luckily, as the sun climbs and their shadows shrink into stubs, the sound of rock music begins filtering over from the other side of the park, drawing many of said Big Kids away. The rest scatter in search of lunch, or movies, or a place to hang that has a Playstation. The _au pair_ (Erik thinks her name is Amelia, but he isn't sure because Marko goes through so many of them) calls the boys over and stipulates half an hour more, period. Frowning at Charles' flushed and freckled face, she slathers on sunscreen while her charge squirms. Mrs. Marko will have a fit if Charles burns. _ _

__While the Lehnsherr boy doesn't want his friend to get sunburnt either, sometimes the things that woman chooses to worry about mystify him utterly. She doesn't seem to know what her new husband is doing, and she doesn't bat an eyelash when Kurt pats his knee at during parties and makes Charles come sit. There's usually a lot of jovial laughter and hair-ruffling from the business associates, who look at the young boy as though he's some exceedingly clever dog or exotic, golden little monkey. Mr. Marko is an attentive stepdad, Sharon often says, and everyone has a bit of a temper on them, now and again. When Charles 'fell' and broke his arm she was cross with him only because he'd been clumsy and damaged other things, and because the family had a Function to go to. She'd made arrangements and reservations _months_ ago, couldn't imagine inconveniencing the hostess… but then, she didn't want Charles' cast to show in pictures that might make it to the society section of the paper. People have such nasty, wagging tongues. _ _

__Sharon Xavier-- _Marko_ , she'll emphasize, correcting anyone and everyone foolish enough to slip-- is nothing at all like Erik's Mama was. Charles' mom dresses like a movie star, has more shoes than Cain has video games, and always says 'don't muss me' when Charles wants a hug. She doesn't kiss 'owies', read bedtime stories, help with homework, know how to fix a bike, or have time to build with Legos. Erik does have to admit she's very good at tennis (he doesn't think his Mama ever played) and she must be nice sometimes, since she has so many friends to visit and 'lunch' with. Sometimes, Erik tells Charles stories about his own mother, or repeats the tales Mama told him at bedtime, but-- though the younger boy listens with rapt attention-- he thinks sometimes it might also make Charles feel bad._ _

__Having apparently made a decision while Erik was deep in thought, Amelia reaches out and smears sunscreen on him, too. She's more afraid of Shaw than she is of her employer (which is saying something), though Erik could tell her she's way too old to draw the banker's hungry gaze. Nor does she have what Sebastian calls 'the right equipment'. If she's analyzing threats, she should focus on the one closest to home-- Marko isn't _nearly_ so picky. _ _

__

__After enduring the sunscreen, Erik slings his backpack over his shoulder and takes Charles hand so they can make the best of their remaining half-hour. Charles wants to go to the other side of the playground, where there's a fake sabertooth tiger perched on a big rock, with a tunnel underneath for sliding. There's also a mastodon that squirts water in the summertime, and a bunch of giant alien-looking bug things that stick up out of the large sandbox. According to Charles, these things are called 'Trilobites', and they are not aliens but creatures that used to live right here on Earth. He thinks they are 'fascinating', a word Erik had previously heard spoken only by Bill Nye, or Mr. Spock on old _Star Trek_ reruns. Trilobites are older even than the dinosaurs (which Erik likes much better, especially if they have big teeth), but sometimes he still pretends they're space invaders, and shoots at them with his finger while Charles shakes his head. _ _

__When they reach their destination, the Xavier boy quickly clambers up the central bolder to the sabertooth, which used to growl when you sat on it but broke some time ago. Charles is small for a first grader, but he really can move fast. The older boy remains at the base of the rock, rummaging through his backpack. It's only supposed to contain Charles' sidewalk chalk and the basketball they filched from Cain, but today the polaroid is in there too._ _

__"Come up and ride with me!" his friend invites._ _

__"In a minute," Erik says, having finally found the camera. "You have to sit behind me," he adds a few moments later, before scaling halfway himself. He looks up sharply when he doesn't hear the usual protest, only to see Charles' attention is elsewhere. Xavier is staring blindly towards the trees across the courtyard, absorbed by one of his not infrequent moments of distraction. Sometimes he frowns while doing this, or flinches like he's heard something way too loud, but today he only looks far-away-- and maybe a little sad. His mom and stepdad say he has 'spells', Charles' teachers are afraid it might be a seizure disorder, and Cain says his new little brother is just schizo. Cain is most definitely a Big Kid but, if Erik ever gets the drop on him, he'll pound that guy black and blue for saying such stupid stuff about his friend. The same way he's taken care of the first grade bullies who used to bother Charles. He got caught once 'explaining' things to them, which heralded the obvious detention and even more obvious beating at home, but it was worth it to make sure those losers understand that Erik will _always_ protect what belongs to him. _ _

__Looking at Charles now, Lehnsherr understands in some sense below true comprehension or articulation that these are moments in which the younger boy is at his most unvarnished. He almost never relaxes, even sleeping curled up in a ball, and he reads with the tensed shoulders of one accustomed to ambush. Right now, there's no mindfulness of etiquette, no smile forced like the glow of a sunlamp-- half-pleading, half-watchful. Just Charles, Erik's _Myschka_ , sweet and serious and shouldering more than many adults could imagine. 'Pure' is not a word he's child's mind would necessarily associate with another play mate-- especially a male one-- but the swell of feeling is present even if if not the term itself. Unguarded, whole despite all Marko's best efforts, and here with Erik rather than with anyone else.  
Now is the perfect moment. _ _

__"Hey, Charles!" Erik shouts, grinning behind the camera when the other boy turns._ _

__Very deliberately, however, he clicks the shutter first._ _

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [+] _Myschka_ \- a corruption of myszka, Polish for 'mouse'. TBE (to be explained) in the next chapter. ^_~  
> [+] _Abba_ \- Hebrew, father.
> 
> This story is something of a departure from my 'usual', so I'd love to know what you guys think!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's have some good old-fashioned Cherik AU, shall we? ^_~ As always, I can't thank you enough for taking the time to read my story. If I could bother you a bit more to comment or leave kudos… well, let's just say I make some very embarrassing noises when I see them. There may be a Snoopy dance involved, as well. ^^'
> 
>  
> 
> **Trigger Warnings:** Non-graphic mentions (no active depictions) of child abuse, survivor guilt, brief victim blaming, one homophobic slur, and media bias. Shaw being Shaw. Stryker makes some bullshit claims, which I obviously do not agree with in the slightest. Also, I intend no disrespect towards social workers, or anyone else involved in the care of children-- nearly all of them work long and hard, with little to no recognition, to do true good in the world. We all know any system can be exploited, and there are always those few unfortunate individuals susceptible to bribery.   
> **Additional Warnings:** Tony's bizarre sense of humor, (platonic) childhood love. Author suffers from what Stephen King described as 'literary elephantiasis' (though she is obviously no where near as talented as Mr. King). ;-)

It is impossible for the arrival of Tony Stark in any particular geographical area-- particularly when the young scientist, heir, and entrepreneur intends to take up residence-- to occur without significant chaos, fanfare, and/or uproar. Very often, it's all three. In the almost twelve years he's been living with his cousin, Charles has developed something of a script for it-- one which bears significant resemblance to the scene in _The Day The Earth Stood Still_ where the UFO lands on the White House lawn. (The original version, of course, since both Tony and Charles are avowed film snobs.) During this period, the cousins have lived everywhere from California (Tony's fourth boarding school) to Colorado (the fifth); from Quebec (best not to ask) to Cambridge in the UK (private tutoring finally, thank G-d). Stain has always been willing to dedicate resources to 'protecting privacy', and seems to prefer the remaining Stark stay as far away from New York as possible. All the better to protect the board room, my dear. Boston is hardly the long-time trustee's ideal, but there wasn't much he could do once 'the boys' gained almost unheard of early admittance to MIT. 

Tony himself had been over the moon, and Charles himself not far behind. Stark, however, had the additional determination to make the Boston domicile an actual _home_ ; something that was an expression of both himself and Xavier. They would, after all, likely spend more time here than anywhere else they'd temporarily alighted combined. Many would, perhaps, be surprised at such sentimentalism from the notorious playboy, but Charles knows better. Of the two of them, it is Tony who is blessed with an actual memory of home-- a conceptual structure around the seemingly mundane word. Though the climate was changeable and the circumstances not always ideal, Maria Stark had maintained a core of safety and sanctity at the New York mansion. In her absence, Tony absolutely refuses to darken the door of that Neo-Georgian pretender ever again, but it hasn't stopped him from yearning-- in a way that pierces up from the subconscious in spite of youthful bravado-- to recapture an ounce of that feeling. 

 

It's Charles who is awkward about the notion of their own space, as opposed to dorm rooms, rented penthouses, and the glimmering spires of expensive hotels. He has his indulgences (plush beds, sumptuous blankets, well-roasted duck, the occasional good port), but will forego them without comment if the obtaining them renders others even the slightest bit of inconvenience. He remembers all too well the cavernous peril of the Xavier mansion, the sterile menace of the Upper East Side penthouse, and even the shadowy borderlands of the split-level foster home in which he spent so little time. Months passed before he began to unpack here in Boston. Every book left out or clock hung up seemed both threateningly prosaic, and an invitation to disaster. He is not a man who fills the drawers of hotel dressers, or hangs clothes in the closets of extended-stay suites. His toiletries stay neatly nestled in their little zippered travel case and, while books and papers are wont to spread forth in academic entropy, every bit of study material is always ready to recoil its chaotic profusion-- the Big Bang in reverse. 

There are places that retain an alarming changeability even after years of steady occupancy or the lending of definite character, and it is this potentiality against which the young man must constantly be on guard. After all, he'd had a lovely time at the Imperial Gold Lotus, practically wanting to take up residence in the infinity pool overlooking the magical coruscations of Hong Kong city night. Then, insidiously, the subtle angle of the suite's ultra-modern white leather sofa began to remind him of something else. Another hotel, and a little "bonding trip" with dear ol' Stepdad. Similarly, the apartment in Quebec had been one of his favorites, until spring came and the neighbor's balcony chrysanthemums began to bloom. It wasn't their scent, but rather their too-cheerful colors that put him in mind of some dreadful bedspread he'd bitten into… in places far too unpleasant and numerous to put one's finger on.

He is aware that all-- or almost all-- of these impressions come from his own mind. Being rational in this regard would not be difficult even had he not made the psychology his primary field of study. Sensations of deja vu and other unclear triggers that bring him to the pit's lip of panic are caused by misconnections between short and long-term memory in the brain. The medial temporal lobe is the culprit, not any outside entity or force, dragging the hippocampus along for the ride, and it is a strange thing indeed to be aware of just how your mind is betraying you. Yet, long before he ever submitted to a peer-reviewed journal or sat down for a prison interview as part of his Abnormal Psych seminar, he had learned the truth of the consciousness which is mankind's unique curse. The human brain _is_ its own haunted house, done in the style of Shirley Jackson; rooms with open into rooms, leading through narrow corridors and libraries of bizarre and lavish appointment. The downward grade is subtly misleading. You might follow the knockings and moanings in the night, only to find yourself in subterranean caverns before you know it, and there's usually something which lumbers unseen behind you, eating up the crumbs that lead back. The press itself has described Charles Xavier as 'haunted', an adjective the student himself finds distasteful. (Though not as offensive as the terms 'victim', 'tragic' or-- thank you, _Inside Star_ , 'sadly maimed'.) 

When things do go sideways-- memories that whiz by like bullets, if you want to overextend the metaphor-- Charles never mentions his thoughts or impressions, struggling gamely onwards with his best cocktail party smile. ('Sensitive' is another one of those fun words with which he has too much acquaintance.)

 

No one is going to accuse this house of being haunted, that's for sure. The art-deco monstrosity clinging to the North Slope of Beacon Hill negates any such notion-- clean lines, California colors, and proportions that would make the most dedicated cubist cry. In some ways, it really does look like a UFO from Planet Stark landed on the edges of a tastefully historic district. The more the papers criticized the heir's little pet project, the more extravagant Tony became. 'Seriously, just one turret, _please_?' Tony had cajoled. Charles, who'd had enough pretentious architecture to last two lifetimes, reluctantly agreed… with conditions. The result is a cylindrical protrusion that looks like Buck Rogers is about to lift off. 

Despite the building's uneven outward appearance, there isn't a square foot of the place that isn't handicapped accessible. Charles can see Agent McTaggert visibly, though subtly, restraining herself from craning her neck to look about as they follow the upward-slanting hallway towards his study. Beyond the tasteful (if ultra-modern) foyer and sitting room, the house ambles off in two directions. The upstairs, accessible by elevator, is Tony County-- a land of seemingly endless computer screens, gadgets (some of which literally have a mind of their own), classic rock posters, and sleek leather. The ground level gives way to the cooler hues Xavier favors, along with endless books, paintings ranging from the classical to the surreal, and every convenience one could possibly dream of for a paraplegic. Tools that help him maintain his health and autonomy are one thing Charles has never felt guilty about spending his parent's money on. Besides, if he doesn't grab the latest and greatest off the equipment market, then Tony will. This hawk-like solicitude is hidden under a thick layer of casual opulence, and Charles is forever trying to balance the weird sense of guilt and sorrowful awareness-of-guilt which has been simmering, tactfully ignored by both cousins, since the accident.

 

"Here we are," Xavier says gently, pushing the mahogany door open and gesturing for the analyst to precede him. He wheels in behind her, watching the slim woman instinctively gravitate towards the ponderous cherrywood desk which, sitting as it does before the somewhat heavily curtained window, serves as the room's centerpiece. He has four screens going, thanks to the desk's stubby 'U' shape, but maintains enough clear space to write or gaze across at any visitor in the chair opposite. McTaggert, unsurprisingly, does not take the bait. She props herself up against the bulky piece of furniture with a learned, almost architectural elegance. Hands folded demurely over her knee-length pencil skirt, ankles crossed above blunt-tipped, low-heeled pumps. She is an ambassador from the land of strictly sensible shoes, but deviates from her white-shirted companions with a blouse of deep plum. It suits her, and she always was very pretty. Put-together, too, from what Charles remembers of the trial. 

Nodding in concession, the young man does not attempt to wheel around her-- and blocking him was Moira's intent all along. If she'd let him get behind the desk, then he would be in charge; if she sat, they'd be on equal footing. Standing is too obvious a tactic when your foe is in a wheelchair, so she has compromised-- hence her current pose. Smiling slightly, cynically, uncaring if she sees, Charles positions himself by the plush sofa's end table, idly drawing a finger over the bumps and curves on his custom globe of Mars.

"Again, I apologize for my cousin," the scholar says, after an acceptable pause. No rushing, but he must also avoid any uncomfortable silence that might give her the upper hand. "Tony is very protective. He'll cooperate, though-- I promise."

McTaggert raises one carefully sculpted eyebrow, as if to say they _both_ know Tony will do whatever he damn well pleases. Fair enough, the younger cousin acknowledges, but he has made the first volley. A pause manifests again as Moira studies the room; dark blue-green ( _'storm'_ green, Charles calls it privately) where the walls aren't overwhelmed by bookshelves, the stained glass lamps that remind him of the colored marbles he and Erik used to collect, the large framed poster of the Milky Way galaxy with its helpful arrow and legend of 'YOU ARE HERE'. 

Finally, she says, "It's been a long time, Charles."

_'Ah,'_ Xavier thinks, _'so that's how its going to be.'_ Aloud, he replies, "Yes it has, Agent McTaggert."

"Moira, please." Something in her face does soften, but Charles isn't sure it will do him any good. It is compassion, pity, or confusion as to how he's managed to keep going all these years? Likely an unpredictable cocktail of all three.

"How are you holding up?" she asks, giving something of an answer to his unvoiced question. 

 

_'She remembers this case,'_ a little voice advises him. Or perhaps not precisely a voice, for Charles has no idea what Erik sounds like after all these years. And yes, here it is-- the last of Xavier's ghosts. Most carefully guarded and most beloved, the shade which makes all other nightmare visitants bearable, and the one to whom all such monstrosities must bow in submission. 

If the others must be endured, stirring in dungeons and trying to peer over high barbicans, scurrying up the walls like some grotesque pre-Hollywood Dracula, then so be it. Charles can outlast them, can play the psychological Van Helsing with garlic loaded bullets and arrows dipped in holy water. If terror manifests as fact, then fight it with empiricism. 'Catalogue it to death!' Tony often cries, convinced this is his cousin's superpower. But this is one phantom-- Erik, who became a newspaper boogeyman after being tortured by the real thing!-- is welcome.  
Charles will never close the door in his friend's face.

"I've read most of your papers," McTaggert continues conversationally. "You're incredibly well-published, for your age."

"Not really," the graduate student replies with no false modesty. "They're not _my_ papers, by any stretch. The credit I'm given-- appropriately-- is that of an RA. I do a lot of data analysis and organization, but I'm nowhere near top billing." Except for that last one, which Charles submitted to a very prominent journal under pressure from a professor and the (incorrect) assumption on his own part that it couldn't possibly be accepted. A self-deprecating smile plays about his lips, "That's a great deal of very dry reading in only thirty-six hours."

"Charles," the woman says, looking for a moment painfully young and rather like someone exhausted by continual efforts to communicate by shouting across a waterfall. "I read them when they were published."

 

Charles smiles, more charmingly this time, and thinks that if any sentiment even remotely approaching 'triumph in the face of adversity' is expressed in regards to his person, he may not be able to retain his serenity. Such internal chiding serves exactly the purpose it was meant to-- it reenforces the lacquer through which he views the world. He has a reputation for being calm and unflappable, the perfect straight-man cum wrangler for his bombastic cousin. Zeppo Marx-- he of comely looks, gentle voice, and comparatively sane mien-- wouldn't be better casting. Or so Xavier thinks in some of his more morose moments. The comparison is unfair; to Tony, to himself, and to the dynamic between them.

_'You persist in your efforts to be fair,'_ his internal version of Erik murmurs, almost affectionately despairing. Not exactly the way Lehnsherr would have phrased it when they were children, but the sentiment is the same. His old friend has never been a frozen memory; always Charles has imagined Erik growing beside him, three years his senior and tall as lanky youth had promised. It occurs to him, with the regularity of a man who leaves the confessional knowing he will return with the same _mea cupola_ , how shocked Tony would be if he knew of this phantom advisor. Xavier, whose first language was silence even before homicide freed him from Marko's tender auspices, has obviously never spoken of this to anyone. Not even in the drunkest stupor, of which he has had his fair share. No one--ubiquitous, multi-eyed 'no one' of the crowd-- would understand; fine, yes, its as obvious as it is irrelevant. _Tony_ would not understand either, but mostly for the same reasons that make him a wonderful cousin and friend. 

Though he only glanced at the mugshot for a few moments, Xavier now has the updated image of Erik firmly carved into his retina, as settlers once labored over hand-chiseled headstones. He is both unsurprised and deeply disturbed to find how well he conjured Lehnsherr's face when imagination was his only guide; the man hidden within the boy. Most people would turn the metaphor around, focusing on the child-self rattling about within all matured humans. There's some truth it that, Charles is willing to acknowledge, but it also negates the constant _in potentia_ state of which childhood itself is comprised. How the papers had thrilled, titillating each other in one big circle-jerk over their real life 'bad seed'. It was Erik's disposition that determined the end of his short life as a free being, they not-so-subtly implied. As if the core of who Erik was made him deserving of depredation, rather than giving him the strength to survive trauma which would have broken others. Xavier has never been under any delusions-- if their positions had been reversed, if _he_ had suffered as Shaw's toy, he would have died. Ignoble, ignored, written-off and _paid_ -off as some freak accident. The end might even have been by his own hand. Studies have shown how rare suicidal ideation can be in children, he can also recall-- the old semi-reliable 'anecdata'-- that thoughts of slipping from the balcony railing or walking out into traffic crossed his mind more than once before he met Erik. Certainly, he would not have had the strength to turn on his captor, whatever moral judgements you wanted to hand down about the events that followed.

 

"I was particularly interested in your paper on the persistence of Puritanism as seen in the Satanist panic of the 1980's," Moira says, earning points for specificity in her trade. Filling the silence, and making a comment many men would find flattering. The article she's mentioned is the same one Dr. Octavius encouraged-- nearly badgered-- Charles into submitting. It had, the tenured professor said, a lot of feeling behind the deep analytical insight-- an empathy that threw facts into a stark light rather than overwhelming them or turning the whole piece into a sermon. Such confidence from one of his mentors-- who are usually more than a little put-off by his youth-- was invigorating enough for Xavier to cave despite feeling he hadn't produced anything particularly extraordinary in the article. 

"We all bring subconscious expectations to any narrative," the scholar says, now wishing that particular piece of graduate literature hadn't seen the light of day. He doesn't feel naked, not precisely. Having been stripped to quivering vulnerability at such a young age required inurement if he was to survive past predation. Telling the story repeatedly, as if trapped in some fun-house confessional, made it solidify, and Charles solidified with it. He is a hybrid wearing his bones on the outside, exoskeletal because he has spent so much of his life being widely known in certain circles for having been most intimately violated. People see that and assume they know everything, never wise enough to suspect you might still be hiding something precious on the inside. Based on what he'd heard from other survivors, those ritualized revelations of the already known, he suspects many of them feel the same way. For good or ill, he'd stopped going once the State had been satisfied.  
Whether they meant to or not, everyone-- doctors, counselors, fellow patients-- always ended up focusing on Erik. As though _he_ was the traumatic event.

"My goal," he continues, "was to dissect some of the cultural influences brought into play by the adults." After a beat, he cannot help but add, "And the psychological pressure they brought to bear while 'aiding' those children."

 

Of course, like the self-appointed daycare witch hunters, there are those who have never been satisfied no matter how many time Charles repeats the story. Every three years or so, one of the ever-multiplying crime channels runs a special on the quadruple slaying, a pastiche of original news coverage, 'expert' commentary, and interviews anyone even tangentially related to case. It's the kind of pantomime Charles associates with tawdry 'mentalists' and greasepaint, or road-side attractions boasting alien bodies that look suspiciously like malformed vegetables. The most recent 'docudrama' scored a two hour time block and the infamous (not to mention ironically named) Charity Werner as narrator. The center-ring attraction had been Dr. William Stryker of Woodhaven Psychiatric, who has been treating Erik in the three years since he'd been transferred to an adult facility. Charles' constant, low-burning ire at the second and third hand exploitation

_('No!' said so many of the high-powered executives and politicos pulled into the courtroom by Erik's defense attorneys. 'I've never touched a child! They're only pictures. I didn't take them, I don't even know where most of them came from!')_

had been pitched to almost nuclear fission by Stryker's clear intent to concoct a lucrative tell-all book, in addition to the boost treating such a young sociopath had given his career. 

 

The helpful article on Marie's phone reported three bodies in the wake of Erik's escape, with Dr. Stryker chief among them. To mark Charles as unsurprised by the fatality is banal; he'd been certain of it even before he'd reached the paragraph identifying the victim by name. The Xavier heir has never spoken to Stryker, even during the man's persistent-- teetering dangerously close to bullying-- requests for an interview with the 'lone survivor of the tragedy'. He wouldn't have given the man the time of day, even if the psychiatrist hadn't arched towards Charity Werner and her camera like the anticipatory carrion eater pretending to strut rather than slink in when the true apex predators are through. The whole affair ended in one of those rare moments that made Charles feel oddly indebted to Stain and his semi-demoniacal clutch of public relations lawyers. Stryker already has

( _ **had** , Charles reminds himself ruthlessly, forcing himself to recognize that a human life was taken_)

one book to his name; a monograph detailing the psychology of an early school shooter, which lingered lovingly over the violent acts while barely mentioning the victim's names. To say nothing of the innumerable scholarly articles expected of one in his position. Of the latter, Charles has waded-- emerging thankfully unscathed-- through precisely one. It's not an experience he's eager to repeat, though his impassioned critique earned him an 'A' in Medical Literature and Criticism. 

 

"Psychological pressure that caused wild stories to be repeated, and then accepted, as reality?" the agent inquires, with an almost laughably light tone. Charles isn't certain which he should feel more grateful for-- his poker face, or his ability to reenter conversations he has mentally exited without skipping a beat.

"Your own agency confirmed that in the Lanning Report. I wasn't presenting anything ground-breaking in that regard," Xavier reminds her, no doubt unnecessarily. "I think everyone can agree that-- whether they genuinely believed they were helping or not-- the psychologists, parents, and social workers involved ended up harming and exploiting those children."

"Exploitation like that which Dr. Stryker had planned?" And there's the hook, much like an inversion of that carefully sculpted eyebrow. 

He doesn't hesitate, "As a matter of fact, yes. Dr. Stryker was trying to weasel his way around legislation designed to protect the exploited from compounded violation. He had no business trying to profit from the hazy memories of victims-- be it Erik, who has has his penalty from the justice system and didn't need further censure before he escaped, or myself." Charles cannot stop the narrowing of his eyes or the setting of his jaw. "But then, you already knew that."

"That he'd contacted you?" Moria asks, not objecting to the classification of Erik as a victim. She is, almost certainly, filing it away though. "Yes."

It takes a herculean effort, but the scholar refrains from any inquiry about the book. He can only hope that not a single vitriolic word of Stryker's manuscript makes it off whatever unfortunate hard drive it blights. It won't hurt to bolster that hope with the services of lawyers who, by virtue of equally questionable ethics, know exactly what sort of loopholes any executor of the doctor's estate might use. 

 

_'Will you tell me that I should not have killed him, Myschka?'_ Erik's conjured voice inquires. 

_'Yes,'_ Charles thinks back in a hiss, and surely enough vehemence will make that true. Should that fail, he might do with some dedicated rereading of and meditation on material from last quarters "Ethics and the Justice System" seminar. Morality and legality do not always dovetail. Erik was tried by a jury of his peers-- never mind that, though there were victims in exponential excess, no court would ever appoint a jury composed solely of those who'd suffered similarly to himself and his best friend. All balance is imperfect, and the blindness of marble-tiered Justice is as much a bane as a boon. Xavier reminds himself that he is not in a position to condemn William Stryker in any court save that of his own opinion, no matter what sort of subcutaneous crawling sensations the other man's words inspired. All those letters, emails, phone calls to numbers that should have been private, coyly hinting at telling 'his side of the story' and 'speaking up for other victims' invoked the same visceral recognition of the hunger Charles glimpsed in the psychiatrists televised interview. There are, after all, those who linger over descriptions of feasts only because they lack the stomach to come to the table themselves. 

_'I don't _know_ that,'_ the young man argues, unsure if he is reasoning with himself or the internalized version of his friend. _'You can't convict someone based on feeling--'_

But Erik wouldn't be interested philosophical architecture, or the flawed by necessary social contracts that keep the whole sad world turning 'round. He's down in the mud of trenches with the mustard gas and dysentery-- with the rats that will eat you alive if you sit still too long. How many times has Charles wondered, sudden and nauseous in the middle of some mundane task, how many further depredations Erik may have suffered during his confinement? Even the institution for minors to which Lehnsherr had initially been sentenced was only a prison under its thin hospital veneer, and it did not take an adult intellect to imagine how the hierarchy would work therein. Cain had zealously terrified his young stepbrother with tales of military school and this, combined with the curious dichotomy of privilege and penalty under which both Charles and Erik functioned, inspired any number of nightmare scenarios in the mind of the one left behind. Xavier's imagination had been perhaps even more boundless than those of other children his age, and in his guilt it shied from nothing, finding always some fresh grotesque detail in the news, or in the action movies Tony loved, to heighten the horror. The hulking monster of his childhood had been felled, but the price had been staggering. Erik might as well have been 

_( **dead** , like Mother, like Cain-- who, in retrospect, was likely also a victim until he aged beyond his father's tastes)_

hauled off to another planet. A prison world which, unlike Charles' clever little Martian globe, never succumbed to inertia or released any from its crushing gravity. At least, until now. Like Joshua, Erik has triumphed over the walls, roaming free now to…

_'If he came and slit my throat,'_ the scholar considers once more, mental tone dull despite the hot-cold ball of the day's anxiety pressing in on his chest, throbbing in time with the resurgent migraine, _'Would a true jury-- the mythical kind which is fair and wise and all-knowing-- really find his actions unfair?'_ He resists the urge to set the pink-brown orb, with its powdered-sugar dustings of icecaps, twirling with his finger. It might seem too flippant in present company.

 

"Commentary on my work aside," he says instead, "I think you understand exactly why I declined any involvement with Dr. Stryker. Do you honestly believe he was able to gain any true insight into Lehnsherr?"

"Of course not," Moira smiles tolerantly, but it fades quickly enough. "But I do think there's a reason our suspect killed him, especially given that Lehnsherr only wounded or incapacitated almost everyone else he encountered during the escape."

"All save two others," Charles points out, mostly so she won't. His private reply, laced with far more disdain than is safe, is a half-growled, _'Of _course_ there's a reason. Erik is not a brute.'_ McTaggert wants to draw him out, make him say that which is impulsive or ill-considered. In lieu of that, she'll accept a journeyman's take on victimology. The latter would have been so much easier if she'd just asked in the first place. Impossible, of course, but the returning anguish in his temples is making Xavier very impatient with this verbal dance. 

"Plus two more at a truck stop in Vermont," Mc Taggart reminds him. "A total of five, as your cousin so kindly pointed out."

 

"Two at the truck stop," he echoes, in time with his heart's cadences of _'Oh, Erik. Oh, deaf and heedless G-d… _Erik_.'_ He doesn't steel himself-- it's one thing he's never learned to do without some small physical tell. "The victims at Woodhaven will have been male nurses or attendants. Ones who've had significant disciplinary records themselves. The complaints won't necessarily involve Erik, or even other inmates, but you'll find these individuals wielded their authority quickly, easily, and with enough enjoyment that it made their coworkers uncomfortable." Deep breath now, "They may have been stabbed multiple times, but everything will be post-mortem save the killing blow-- and that blow will be unhesitatingly precise."

"Dr. Stryker had multiple post-mortem wounds," McTaggert admits, having assumed an expression uncannily like that of Gabrielle yesterday in the student union. See the amazing Xavier do wheelchair donuts in his petri dish. This version has an extra helping of suspicion: 'how _does_ he do it?' "All three died of deep throat lacerations. Rapid decrease in blood pressure and loss of consciousness-- slaughtered, in the most literal sense of the term." Charles' own blood is draining from his face, and he turns away slightly on the pretext of turning the table lamp on to its lowest setting. Outside, the _(dying)_ setting sun is doing up the sky in appropriate shades of autumn-- copper, gold, warm sable, and… well, there are all sorts of words for red. "They were dead within minutes. You seemed to indicate all three killings were personal, yet this was true only in Stryker's case."

"Personal and functional," the scholar elaborates. His head is still pounding, pressure and bile traveling swiftly to join it while his stomach plummets in the opposite direction. "The aides made Lehnsherr feel victimized at some point, but he may not have sought them out purposefully-- not the same way as the one he considered the primary offender. Check Stryker's files-- if he was heavy-handed trying to obtain my cooperation, G-d only knows what he felt free to do in his own office. He also thought himself untouchable, so you will find something. He strikes me as a man with Nixon's disease." 

Moira's lips part to question the term, before she quickly makes the connection and huffs humorlessly. "You were very specific about how their throats were cut."

He flutters a hand, which ends up rubbing at his temple rather than back in his lap where he intended it. "Shaw was an avid hunter, in addition to his other… proclivities." He does hate masking the man's monstrosities with formality, but neither is he eager to give that specter power by naming crimes in detail each time. It becomes a litany, if one is not careful-- invoking fear rather than dispelling. "He took Erik with him, making him participate in more than just fetch and carry. If Erik failed to make good aim and only wounded an animal, Shaw would make him track it down and finish the job." Despite the black dots congregating at the edge of his vision, Charles makes a point of looking into the agent's eyes. "He learned to do it quickly. He hated the sounds."

"Shaw and Marko," McTaggert muses, "a veritable bloodbath and another case of multiple stab wounds. But Cain and--" 

 

"My mother," Charles murmurs quietly, thinking-- as he always does-- of her lipstick. Another chain of memory associations and, in many ways, a symbol of her poise. Each time she conjured compact to her hand or leaned towards a mirror, there was an absence both to the motion and in her expression. Not inattention, but rather the kind of flawless execution of a pianist who no longer has to think about the keys. He remembers, too, the shape of her underneath the white sheet as the coroner wheeled her away. Blood had seeped through the blank cloth, creating a large crescent-- a bizarre, cartoon kind of smile. A crayon-lipstick grin, as when he drew clumsy pictures of her in preschool. At the time he'd thought, with childish lunacy, 'too bright, it doesn't go with her complexion'. She always swore she looked best in spring or summer shades. He had cried for her then-- or rather shed tears in excess of those already pouring down his face as he screamed, begged, pleaded for someone to tell him where Erik was.  
No, his best friend had never been a brute, but he was not a saint-- or _mensch_ \-- either. And what, then, does that make Charles?

His gaze shifts automatically to a photo on the opposite wall, thus drawing McTaggert's attention to the dated, frozen image in the frame. Involuntary, telling, but it may do him some credit-- the agent's expression regains some compassion as she too looks on Charles' mother at age sixteen. Sharon Gilcrist, she was then, perched on a pier in The Hamptons with her sister. Maria is as pale and dark as Sharon is golden, and they wear daisy lace swim suits in white and black respectively, as if playing off their natural contrasts. The sweet, open smile on Aunt Maria's face is obvious, but Sharon's seems (and here comes our old friend 'perception' again) a bit haughtier, perhaps a little knowing. 

"Yes," Moira agrees. "Functional killings, as opposed to those with a vendetta behind them. But why perpetrate those last two, in the string of original murders? You're saying he's a revenge killer--"

"Not revenge-- or not _only_ revenge. Recompense," Xavier says, more to the photo than to his present company. It's tempting to cast his mother as a villain, and he has given into the impulse on more than one occasion. Yet always he reminds himself, the way one is reminded by the reopened wounds of religious self-flagellation, that everything he has came at a heavy cost-- to everyone but himself. "Lehnsherr has high standards by which he is measuring everyone, himself included. These 'ethics' may not be easily understood, and they are heavily warped towards a survival-based morality, but they are there." And, with too much effort to add a gilding of casual tone, "You won't find him if you don't recognize that."

He holds his shoulders square while the agent looks at him, no matter how much he wants to hunch over against the pain pounding through every portion of his body still capable of registering such. McTaggert's lips purse-- she is an autumn and winter pallet, herself-- and the question _is_ coming. It twists suspended like the Oracle at Delphi, a shrouded thing in mists of court records, police reports, and grand jury testimony. Perhaps not now though, he thinks as the silence gathers in with the dusk. It is actually Moira who looks away first, glancing down at her cell-phone with a practiced twist of the wrist. Habit, affectation, or a genuine message from her team?

When she looks up, it's to say, "You're not feeling well, are you?"

"No," Charles says honestly, too far into the pit to be tempted to a more sarcastic response. He turns off the lamp despite her continued presence, leaving only the ambient light from the hallway and gloaming between the curtains. Amazing what a few constricted blood vessels can do, and amazing that they should cause and propagate the agony when the brain itself is once more at fault. But then, that tricky little bit of organic clockwork isn't capable of physical suffering. If he's trembling, it's the migraine. They don't have Erik-- they haven't caught him. If the manhunt were over, McTaggert would give some small tell, and would have no longer have a reason to withhold information in any case. 

"I'm afraid migraines are rather a health hazard of late," he elaborates. With one break off, he pivots the wheelchair, now facing the lush furniture monstrosity Tony is forever teasing him about ('You'll sink, be eaten by the couch and I'll never find you!' his cousin bemoans). Right now, it looks like paradise in dark blue, even if it is a little difficult to get situated in. Once he's settled, though, the support for his head, neck, and back is nothing short of miraculous. 

"Stress related?"

He huffs lightly, "If only it were so simple." To say these cranial agonies are a problem 'of late' is code-- Xavier will do any number of verbal contortions to avoid saying 'since the accident'. In this, he may be more dedicated to obfuscation than his cousin, and Tony's guilt is as heavy as it is unwarranted.

"I'll let you rest, then," Moira says, now apparently the soul of discretion and largesse. As she crosses to the door, she makes a brief move as if towards Charles-- perhaps to put a hand on his shoulder?-- but seems to think better of it. Xavier, busy lowering the of his wheelchair so he can transfer, hides a faint smile. "My colleagues and I will be heading back to our temporary HQ, but we've assigned a discrete police presence-- uniformed and otherwise-- to monitor the house."

"Very well." Having affected the transfer, Charles now sinks gratefully into the plush cushions and pile. It reminds him of blanket forts, the kind he once built with more than the boogeyman in mind.

The agent is still lingering in the threshold, letting in too much light from the hall. He wonders, vaguely, if she knows he sees auras at times like these-- any number of optical illusions that gather colors and flashing lights to outline the bodies of those around him. "Should I get Mr. Stark?" She has a vague russet corona. It clashes with her blouse. 

"Please-- just go." Tony will find him if need be, and refuse to wake him for anything short of World War III. Another one of those lovely psychological paradoxes dictates that, in defiance of logic, no amount of reassurance can soothe his cousin-- especially if it comes from Charles. He did suffer these attacks as a child; less frequently, though it was still enough for Cain to deem him a 'delicate little fag'. Tony wasn't with Charles then, when he would hide in the closet or lay in the dark bathroom against the blessedly cool empty tub. On a handful of occasions-- just once or twice, really-- that little boy had another companion besides the deep spider's legs of pain lodged in his skull. Exasperated, a little frustrated at their interrupted play, but never the less concerned.

( _'Wha-- what're you do'n?'_  
_'Drawing on your back. I'm bored. I'll do letters, you guess.'_  
_'… kay.' The touch is light, making shivers that drive back the pain for blissful seconds. 'No Hebrew, though. That's cheating.')_

 

The door clicks shut, leaving Xavier in a darkness that has evaluated him far too many times to still have interest. In this house he owns jointly with his cousin, in this room that belongs to him, it is Charles' concern alone if he wishes to drowse and imagine some respite. A form beside his own, innocent of all intent save comfort and affection.

It is solely his business, too, if the shoulders of that ether-body should now be broader, the hand stronger and fully capable of swallowing his own.

  


[* * * * * *]

From the unpublished manuscript of _Evil's Infancy: The Psychopathy of Erik Lehnsherr, Child Murderer by William Stryker, MD, PhD._ :

It has been said that, in our modern era, the concept of Evil has been replaced with that of evil-- lower case 'e' very much evident. We see the hellish perpetuation of cycles like child abuse, gang violence, and the deterioration of our educational system as complex performances, carried out by actors who themselves one played the role of victim. I, too, succumbed to this fallacy during my graduate and post graduate studies in Abnormal Psychology. I will ask you, the reader, to put aside pre-programmed sympathies and allow me to set forth the entirety of my experience with the patient who impacted some of my most fundamental beliefs. After more than a decade of working with violent, ill-adjusted, and often psychotic offenders, I must confess myself entirely unprepared for the young murderer who would-- in far less time-- consume my career. My liberal education, well-tried treatment methods, and even the documentation of this patient's previous history left me ill-armed, and I was not so arrogant that I did not recognize it immediately. For the moment I looked into the dead green eyes of Erik Lehnsherr, I knew that I was gazing on Evil in its purest form.

[* * * * * *]

  


Down in the leaf-strewn gully, on the banks of a now mostly dry and arthritic stream, Erik and Charles lie together like a pair of antique spoons safe in a drawer, down and out of the way from everyone else. This is a good hiding spot, far into one of the pockets of human absence scattered sparsely across the park. If someone does come, there's a great drainage tunnel which cuts, shored up by cement, into the nearby hill, and Erik and Charles hide in the shadows until the people go away. Erik has laboriously moved several large rocks into the tunnel, so Charles can sit without getting his uniform muddy and damp (and himself in trouble, later). For his part, the younger boy brought a cookie tin from one of his mother's many catered affairs, and the two friends use it as a hiding place for treasures they cannot safely keep at home. Cain loves to smash Charles' things, and Shaw is fond of hostage-taking. Erik won't even tell his friend some of the things he's had to do to ransom possessions or 'privileges' back.  


 

They don't talk about that stuff here, though. It's a rule. Sometimes, they pretend that all the rest of the world is dead and gone away, with just the two of them left. They could get up and wander wherever they pleased; eat food off the shelves at the bodega, play on all the playgrounds, and never go back to the penthouses they refer to when they use the word 'home'. Erik would find them someplace better to live, with a big bed (because he knows Charles loves jumping on them) and lots of lights, and maybe even a dog.

Because of the dog, Erik says it would have to be a plague, or maybe a comet that just vaporizes all the people stupid enough to stand around and watch it. He wanted it to be a zombie apocalypse, so he could smash and batter all the monsters, but Charles is afraid of zombies, so he changed it.

It's a nice game, but they're not playing it now. Right now, they're both tired; Shaw was in a mood last night and, while Charles was spared his stepfather's attentions, the Markos had a loud party that carried on into the wee hours. The Xavier boy was too tense to sleep, not knowing if Marko would tell someone to 'help themselves', and spent the night huddled under his bed. School dragged on forever, but they both know falling asleep there only results in lectures from teachers, and sometimes a note or phone call home. Once, before Erik came to live at his building, Charles was silly enough to try and tell the school nurse where all his bruises really came from. This resulted in the first-- but not the last-- time the boy ended up peeing blood. Erik says Charles is book-smart and people-stupid, but the mistake was understandable because Charles was kindergarten (a whole year ago) and didn't know any better. The older boy made a similar mistake himself once, when he tried to tell a social worker about Shaw. 

Once upon a time, Erik had a _real_ mother, and she said that sometimes you could only learn by making mistakes. She sounds very nice; Erik says she never made him kneel on rice or sesame seeds if he didn't get all 'A's. This was back before the fire that burned away Erik's old life; when he lived with his parents in a smaller but happier apartment, and was allowed to play soccer, and went to Hebrew School. Plus Temple, on Saturdays. Charles' family doesn't go to church, and neither does Shaw.  
Erik says that's not important anyway, because G-d is either really mean, or really deaf.

Now both boys go to Essex Academy (which Marko refers to as 'Expensive Academy'), but they don't see each other much because Erik is in third grade and Charles is only in first. Right now, they're using their scratchy uniform jackets for pillows, while they lie next to one another in the matted leaves and grass. They'll have to be sure to shake them out before they go home, or Charles' _au pair_. will have a fit. 

 

According to Erik, Charles should be in his class, because his friend is a lot smarter than the other third-graders he currently has to put up with. It's not fair that Mrs. Marko makes her son stay back to 'assimilate with his age group'. The kids in Charles' class are just as stupid as all the other kids at Essex Academy. In fact, Erik says, they're all _nudniks_ \-- which is worse than being stupid.

It's not that Erik hasn't learned anything from Charles or doesn't listen to him-- but he _is_ older, and that usually makes him in charge. Charles did teach him the right forks to use so Shaw wouldn't get (more) angry, and that scientific names for plants and dinosaurs are a lot cooler than the English ones. Charles is also how they found out that Erik likes to draw-- they'd had a good time making use of Xavier's Crayola paints and crayons before Cain came in and started tearing things up. Now Erik saves his lunch money to buy pencils of all colors at the art store on the corner, and takes printer paper from school when the teacher isn't looking. He eats all the vegetables his classmates would throw away and sometimes part of Charles' lunch, if there's enough. (Charles brings lunches packed by the housekeeper, because his mother says he's gluten intolerant and allergic to everything, though he's fine when he eats from the street stands with Erik and the au pair.)

 

The cookie tin is open on the ground nearby, and Charles can see Erik's pencils sticking out, carefully wrapped in an old sandwich bag. Right now, the older boy is more interested in the three knight figurines they keep hidden there as well. He's galloping his favorite one (with the axe and the purple tunic) up and down Charles' arm, which kind of tickles. The yellow one is the Bad Guy and Charles has the Blue Knight, who mostly races against Erik's knight and doesn't thwack the Bad Guy all the time. 

 

"I will destroy you!" Erik's knight says to the yellow one in a deep, important voice. "You will leave my lands now, or I will cut off your head and play basketball with it!"

"Heads don't bounce," Charles stage-whispers. Erik grunts, unimpressed, so he makes his own Blue Knight say, "Leave now, villain, and we can avoid total chaos!"

"We should kill him anyway," his friend says.

"Erik…" the younger boy protests. On _Excalibur Tales_ , King Arthur never kills anyone who peacefully surrenders. 

"Join me, Blue Knight," the purple one 'says', while Erik moves it over to stand on the same hand with which Charles is holding his toy. "We can unite our kingdoms and send the enemy away for good. I will kill him and bring you his head!"

Somewhat exasperated, the younger boy huffs, "Always heads."

"Still-beating heart?" That's from a samurai movie Cain was watching last week. 

"Messy," Charles shakes his head. After a thoughtful pause, "All his horses and elephants and a catapult?"

"Done!" Erik declares. Then in proper character voice, "Join me, my friend."

"Will you protect me?" Charles asks, forgetting to use the right pitch.

"For always and always," is the whispered reply. The older boy rubs their noses together-- what his Mama called an 'Eskimo kiss'-- and then smashes the already abused Yellow Knight repeatedly on a nearby rock. He throws the figurine into the bushes, causing Charles to roll his eyes. Now they'll have to hunt for it later.

 

Setting his own avatar aside, Erik pulls Charles a little closer, tucking the younger boy under his chin. Cain calls Charles a runt, but Erik says he's just the right size. With the warmth of his friend's body, Charles realizes he was shivering a little before. The brightness of the afternoon is fading, making the shade cooler. They'll have to go back before the sun starts to set. When he shivers again, it isn't from the chill, but Erik starts rubbing his arms helpfully anyway.

"Do you want your jacket back?" the older boy asks. Charles shakes his head silently, pressing his nose into the divit between the high knobby bones near Erik's collar. He knows from his real (and very dead) dad's anatomy textbooks that this is called a suprasternal notch, between the clavicles. The scratchy uniform shirt and undone tie make a little cave for him, and help soak up the stray tears.

"Charles?" Erik asks, and holds on more tightly. "Hey, hey…" He doesn't make the other boy show his face, but he does pepper kisses over Charles' hair and visible cheek. Kisses are fine-- good, even. They're nice, so of course neither Marko nor Shaw ever have any use for them, and they're nothing like the nasty, hurtful things the adults make both boys do. Charles scrunches his eyes closed and doesn't say anything about how horrible or overwhelming his stepfather is, or how he sometimes wishes he could close his eyes and just never wake up again. Aside from the Rule, Erik doesn't like it when Charles talks about going away. It's only other people his friend wants to drop off the face of the earth. The Xavier boy doesn't want anyone to get hurt, himself, but he does wish it would all just _stop_.

"Charles," Erik whispers again. And then, " _Myschka_ , my poor little _myschka_." This is Charles' very special and secret name, which of course prompts him to ask-- in a rather wet and cloggy voice-- for the story.

 

"Myschka was a little white mouse," Erik begins. "The most beautiful white, and so clever he could run mazes and outsmart traps." The story is actually from a book, with pictures, but Charles has never seen it. In Erik's old life, it was one of his favorite bed-time stories, and his Mama read it to him with her finger pointing out the practice words. It is called Little Myschka Goes to the Moon. When Erik first saw his friend-- then all one big black eye and a significant limp-- in the hallway of their building and then in the schoolyard, he says he knew that they were different in the same way.

In the story, Myschka is the only white mouse in a land full of brown ones.

"Brown mouses-- mice," Erik narrates, pretending to correct himself.

"Meeces," Charles pipes in, recognizing his cue. The boys share a ritual snicker, before the elder returns to Myschka's predicament. 

Because he is small and smart and different, the brown mice make fun of him and refuse to be his friends. ("That's always the way," Erik annotates wisely.) Myschka is sad, but he works hard on his mazes and other puzzles, and eventually the scientists who own all the mice choose him especially to go on their rocket ship. Whoosh! They head off to the moon!

 

The first time Erik told him the story, Charles informed him very importantly that the moon is airless and barren and no place for a mouse or his subsequent adventures. Erik didn't speak to him for two whole days. Finally, the younger boy apologized, and his friend explained that an important part of make-believe is sometimes ignoring the obvious. Like how Lois Lane never figures out that Clark Kent is just Superman with glasses. Charles understands a little better now; it is a very nice story, and one Erik's Mama told him, so it's nice to believe in it. Even if only for a little while.

Aside from being smart, Myschka is very brave, so he isn't afraid to sneak away from the spaceship and explore the moon by himself. It is, of course, hollow and made from green cheese-- which requires a considerable amount of restraint on Charles' part. The little white mouse soon meets up with tiny green moon-men, who don't take a liking to him because he doesn't look like _them_ , either. Poor, unlucky Myschka may have to go back to Earth, where the other mice will laugh at him and call him a liar. 

"Won't they maybe be impressed?" Charles asked once. "They might want to be his friends, then." Erik had conceded that this was possible, but added that they might only _pretend_ to be kind, the way Marko and Shaw acted like happy dads in public. Unfortunately, it makes sense, and Myschka himself must have thought of it, because he doesn't go back to the ship. Instead, he wanders through many lonely cheese tunnels (nibbling occasionally), until he meets another tiny moon-man. This one, however, is blue.

"The blue moon-man has been made to live all by his lonesome far from the others, because he's not the same color and he has many sharp teeth." Erik is especially fond of that part. Now he looks at Charles expectantly. 

"Both Myschka and the blue moon-man both know what its like to be different and alone. Every though they are very different from each other, they're really the same. They're brothers," the younger boy finishes, because this is his part. "They want the same thing."

"So they are, and they do," Erik says with satisfaction. " _Ve'hem ẖayu be'osher va'osher ad etzem hayom hazeh_." That last bit is how Erik's Mama ended every story, and therefore it is the best type of ending. It's still a little like 'happily ever after', though, which annoys Erik sometimes-- he says its like someone trying to sell you the Brooklyn Bridge.

 

"We should get going," the younger boy says reluctantly. His mom and stepdad might not notice if he's gone when they come home from work, but Shaw expects Erik to be there with dinner on the table. 

"In a minute," Lehnsherr murmurs, clearly aware that Charles is still trembling. Xavier (for he has been allowed to keep his name) knowns he shouldn't be a baby about this-- it's not going to stop unless his Mom divorces Marko. Fat chance, as they say, and anyway what if the next one is worse? The dads on TV don't do anything like Charles and Erik experience, but television and movies are often just another form of 'let's pretend'. At any rate, Erik has it much worse then he does. Shaw doesn't have to worry about making excuses to a wife, and the government people are usually easy to threaten or pay off.

Erik makes little shushing noises and even hums a little, until at last Charles is calm enough to help him find the Yellow Knight, and put the cookie tin back in its stash spot. Erik never says, 'it will be okay' or 'someday it will stop'. They both wish it fervently, but neither boy knows if this is truly possible, and Lehnsherr definitely doesn't believe in lying to your friends. 

Instead, he helps Charles climb the embankment, and they dust each other off on the shady sidewalk. After a careful check for adults, Erik squeezes his young friend's hand.

He just says, "My _Myschka_."  
And kisses Charles' cheek. 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Glossary:  
> [+] _Myschka_ \- a corruption of myszka, Polish for 'mouse'. TBE (to be explained) in the next chapter. ^_~  
> [+] The Lanning Report was written by FBI child abuse expert Kenneth Lanning, debunking the large-scale Satanic Ritual Abuse panic that begin in California in the 1980's and spread throughout the country, and clarifying appropriate techniques for interviewing vulnerable child witnesses.  
> [+] _Night of The Comet_ (1984) reference FTW. If you're looking for hysterical post-apocalyptic fun and 80's girl power, start here.  
>  [+] _Ve'hem ẖayu be'osher va'osher ad etzem hayom hazeh_ \- Hebrew. Standard ending for a fable or fairytale. 'And they lived in happiness and luxury to this very day.'
> 
> I hope everyone in applicable locations has a safe and fun holiday weekend! If not, just have a great weekend anyway!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzzah! *checks off another from her all-too-lengthy list of neglected fics* This is how I pretend my limited attention span isn't quite as pathetic as it actually is. ^_~ Thank you so much for taking the time to read this! Expanded trigger warnings are available in the end notes for this chapter. There's nothing explicitly depicted but, given the nature of one of the things mentioned, I thought it best to give a detailed warning. If you're concerned and/or don't mind spoiling yourself, please check it out.
> 
>  **Trigger Warnings** : Past child abuse both physical and sexual (mentioned but not depicted-- see below), Shaw's disturbing prejudices and philosophies, Styker blathering on offensively about 'biological determinism', increasing body count, Erik projecting some of his own experiences.
> 
>  **Additional Warnings/Enticements** : Massive amounts of Erik!Logic, traumatized but still rather adorable bb!Charles, possessive Erik, protective Erik… he's just _really_ being Erik, okay? ^_~

__**CASE #1507E199-.**  
Transcript of initial victim interview by Dr. Henry McCoy, Clinical Child Psychologist, Columbia University, on behalf of the New York Police Department --th Precinct:  
**PATIENT NAME:** _XAVIER, CHARLES FRANCIS_  
**DOB** : 10/19/19-- **AGE:** 6  
**HEIGHT:** 40" **WEIGHT:** 42 lb **Bloodtype:** O  
**ADMITTED:** 09/27/199-, 11:02 PM, Mt St Mary's Hosp.  
**Intake Nurse:** Maria Hill, RN  
**Attending Physician:** Dr. Jane Foster  
**Admitting Officer** : Det. Moira McTaggart, NYC --th Precinct Major Crimes  
(see attached forms PD21-A and PD21-C for physical diagnosis)

 **HENRY MCCOY:** Hello, Charles. My name is Dr. McCoy. I believe Detective McTaggart said I'd be stopping by? I'd just like to ask you a few questions, if you're not too tired.  
**CHARLES XAVIER:** : … No, I'm fine. Pleased to meet you, sir.  
**HM** : Same here-- and why don't you call me 'Hank'?  
**CX:** Yessir.

[Lengthy silence. Patient does not lower gaze, but retains otherwise submissive posture, staring into the middle distance. It is evident that, while he is not actively crying, he has been doing so quite recently.]

 **HM:** Looks like you had a rough night.  
**CX:** (shrugs) I'm alright.  
**HM:** Your doctor has something a bit different to say, my friend. That wrist doesn't look too hot, either.  
**CX:** It's not so bad. The swelling has gone down.  
**HM:** Can you tell me what happened?  
**CX:** (deliberately misunderstanding) I just put ice on it, like you're supposed to. (beat) When I got home, I mean.  
**HM:** I meant, how did you sprain and bruise your wrist to begin with? Those marks are quite dark.  
**CX:** : On the playground.  
**HM:** And the marks on your back? Are those also from the playground?

[another long pause]

 **HM:** (gently prompting) Charles?  
**CX:** … (very quietly) No.  
**HM:** : Dr. Foster says you have a great deal of scarring, as well some open wounds back there and in other… more private places. Can you tell me what happened?  
**CX:** (picks restlessly at the sheets) When I'm bad, Mr. Marko has to correct me. It's his job, because my real Daddy is dead.  
**HM** : And how does he 'correct' you?  
**CX:** Lotsa ways. 

[Patient's breathing is uneven. He temporarily curls over in a self-hug before regaining an even rhythm.]

 **CX:** Where's Erik? May I see him?  
**HM:** Erik is answering some questions of his own right now.  
**CX:** (speaking for the first time above a whisper, voice revealed to be quite hoarse) You didn't get him to a doctor? He was hurt!  
**HM:** (reassuringly) No, no-- Erik has received treatment as well. Charles… if you won't tell me how you got hurt, will you tell me who hurt Erik?  
**CX:** (decisively) No.  
**HM:** Why not? You seem to want to help him. You're obviously concerned about him.  
**CX:** He's my best friend. But we have a promise, and _I'm not a narc_. 

[Doctor's Note: Slang seems atypical given patient's otherwise unusually mature diction. Follow-up with investigators regarding drug paraphernalia found with Marko's body.]

 **HM:** Charles, do you know what happened tonight?

[more silence]

 **CX:** … Kind of?  
**HM:** And what is that?  
**CX:** (with an air of recitation) You shouldn't speak to things you're uncertain of. Guessing isn't scientific.  
**HM:** Fair enough. I won't ask you to hypothesize about things you didn't see, but I would like you to tell me whatever you _know_ to be true. Just the facts, as it were. Can you do that for me?

[Patient's mouth moves silently, too faintly for lip-reading. After a moment, he nods.]

 **HM:** What did you--?  
**CX:** Mr. Shaw is dead. Mr. Marko and Cain are dead. My mother… (bites lip, sniffles) My mother…

[Does not accept offered box of tissues, reverting instead to self-hug.]

 **CX:** (cont.) I saw the… morticians? … bring them out all covered.  
**HM:** 'Coroner' is the word you're looking for. He'll examine the bodies and help tell us what happened.  
**CX:** (obviously frowning) But you've already decided what happened.  
**HM:** (allowing some surprise in his tone) 'Decided' is an interesting choice of words. Didn't you just say one shouldn't theorize without some knowledge of the situation?  
**CX:** (very patiently, but also sounding sad) You shouldn't, but sometimes people do anyway. They ignore the data.  
**HM:** Have your seen that a lot, Charles? Adults ignoring data?  
**CX:** (as if he hasn't heard the question) I saw the police, too. They do fingerprints, and the blood flashlight. So you know what happened, by now.  
**HM:** I'm afraid things don't move quite as quickly as they seem to on TV. It's a process, and part of that process is asking questions of the people who where there when it happened.  
**CX:** The witnesses. (shifts, abandons picking at sheets to chew at already closely-bitten nails)  
**HM:** That's right.  
**CX:** But I didn't see anything. I was in the closet. Can I see Erik now, _please_?

[Doctor's Note: Patient is very obviously rocking at this point. When the tissue box is set on the bed, the patient reacts with skittishly and shifts to the other side of the mattress. Even the most basic of consoling gestures would likely be misinterpreted.]

 **HM:** (keeping voice very gentle) No, Charles. Witnesses must be questioned separately. And I think you know by now that Erik is in quite a bit of trouble.  
**CX:** (visibly shaking) He didn't… he didn't mean to be bad. He's not bad-- I don't care who told you so! Teachers think he's… (makes air quotes with reddened fingers) 'defiant', acting out. Mr. Essex always says so. But really, Erik was just angry because he wanted Mr. Shaw to _stop_. (close to tears) It can't be that all adults do those things. Is it so much to ask for them to just _stop_?  
**HM:** And what was Shaw doing that Erik needed to stop?  
**CX:** (frustrated, gripping sheets) You _know_. He has scars, same as me. _Worse_. On his back, on his feet, and… (deep, shuddering breath) in his Down-There. I told the lady policeman about Marko's computer. Her name was Moiry-- 

[Doctor's Note: Patient is referring to Detective Moira McTaggart, badge #22537.]

 **CX:** (cont.) -- so she must have looked by now. (crying) Don't make me tell! (escalating to a wail) I'll get in trouble and you'll call me a liar!  
**HM:** : (moving closer, but refraining from physical contact) Charles-- Charles, calm down. Listen to my voice. Just breathe deeply. In… and out… 

[Patient is guided through basic anxiety deescalation exercise.]

 **HM:** Yes, like that. Shall I get you a drink of water?  
**CX:** (now muffled into his pillow) No, thank you. I really don't want anything extra in it.  
**HM:** Something 'extra' in the water?  
**CX:** Dizzy-sleepy stuff; pharmamu-- (carefully enunciating) pharma-ceu-tic-als.  
**HM:** Charles, I am a doctor. Doctors abide by something called patient confidentiality. What you tell me isn't for anyone outside this investigation. I'm not going to play any tricks on you. Do you understand?  
**CX:** No. I mean-- yes, I understand. But I'm very sorry sir-- you're wrong. I told the nurse at school. It was stupid to try, but I didn't know Erik then and I thought she would help. All she did was call my mom and say I was telling nasty lies. That I have a privileged life but was being ungrateful and _nasty_ and, and--

[resumes chewing on fingernails, but quickly moves to biting his knuckles]

 **HM:** Charles, can you put your hands in your lap, please? You mustn't hurt yourself.  
**CX:** (mumbling) … feel better. I want Erik.  
**HM:** I'm afraid--  
**CX:** Do we need a trade?  
**HM:** (slowly) What kind of trade?  
**CX:** (impatiently, amidst sporadic tears) Anything! I do it to you, and you let me see Erik. (looks at doctor a long time) Or is it that you like girls better?  
**HM:** (slowly, calmly) Charles, adults are not supposed to touch children that way-- for a trade, or for any reason at all. It is very, very wrong.  
**CX:** (accusingly) So you do know! You don't really have any questions, you're just testing me, and you won't let me see Erik. (very obviously bargaining) He won't talk to you-- but I can get him to. Almost always, he'll do it for me.  
**HM:** I know you're upset right now, Charles, and that's perfectly alright, but seeing Erik is out of the question. I don't have any say in that regard.  
**CX:** (desperately) Then _who _does__!?!  
**HM:** This is a very serious matter, and I'm afraid its just not possible.

[Patient does not respond directly, dissolving into hysterical tears. Nail and knuckle biting begins again-- this time with enough force to draw blood-- muffling cries of 'I'll be good!' and 'Erik!'. Nurses entering for assistance only increase patient's agitation. Eventually, a light sedative must be employed.]

(SESSION TERMINATED DUE TO PATIENT DISTRESS)

PRELIMINARY NOTES: In addition to grievous cicatrizing lacerations on back and inner thighs, along with fresh cigarette burns, evidence of anal tearing, and documentation of previous treatment for triplane fracture of the left ankle (see attached physician's report), patient suffers deep psychological scarring from years of abuse. Though patient has not yet made direct, official outcry, nervous behaviors, physical evidence, and reluctance to extend basic trust indicate this abuse covered a broad spectrum, including sexual exploitation, and was highly sadistic in nature. The systematic torture informed every aspect of this young boy's life. While clearly understanding moral concepts of right and wrong, patient's incidental learning has fostered a distrust for authority and an idea that 'adults' impose rules they themselves disregard at whim. Patient thus relies on bargaining and indicates a resignation towards undertaking unpleasant/humiliating tasks as an expected 'currency'. Rather than rationalize his abuser's (abusers'?) behavior or succumb to capture bonding, patient imprinted on a fellow victim, making that individual the central source of security and affection in his life. This extends to making the sort of extreme excuses for behavior normally extended by the victim for their abusers. While it is clear the current suspect (E. Lehnsherr) could wield an enormous amount of psychological power over the patient, physical evidence (or rather, lack thereof) and patient's own emotional responses during interview indicate it is highly unlikely C. Xavier actually participated in the events of 9/27. Nothing conclusive may be determined at this point. It will take a great deal of time, patience, and insight to guide the patient to a point where any reliable narrative might be obtained.

* * *

"So, I'm an eight year old boy," Special Agent Bobby Drake muses, calm tenor voice carrying with inoffensive clarity in the narrow confines of the unmarked surveillance van. Armando Munoz looks away from his screens-- stacked four wide and two high along the rear driver's side paneling-- to watch his teammate flick through the the Lehnsherr file with cool swipes over the tablet screen. The blond profiler looks rather like the eight year old about whom he is hypothesizing, tipped back in the narrow folding chair with precarious balance all too dependent on the way his feet are propped up on the rickety table nearby.

"Good, lower middle-class family, stable home life, more than decent grades," Drake continues, jiggling his foot on each point to create three ominous little squeaks. Armando's mother-- who was and still is a school teacher-- always said, 'four on the four, plus two more'. It seems Bobby missed that day. Though she currently lives and works in a well-to-do district just outside of Atlanta, Althea Munoz did her initial requisite tours of those educational equivalents of Saint Elsewhere-- places Armando is certain are as foreign to the prep schools of Drake's youth as the surface on Mars. It's entirely possible that safety was shunted aside there in favor of classes on how to sprawl in attractive dishabille like some sort of Abercrombie ad. Munoz has a great deal of respect for and camaraderie towards the kid (and, despite his years in the field, there's still something a bit too raw about the agent to avoid that appellation), but it wasn't exactly a shocker to learn that Quantico's new golden boy was the nephew of a US Senator. "Then I lose both my parents--"

"Practically the whole damn community, given the size of the fire," the technical analyst points out, tapping on the closest screen. Archival footage from local WKLP plays there soundlessly, flickering in those particular hues taken on by seemingly anything filmed more than a decade ago. Faintly, Armando-- who has been called 'Darwin' for so long the actual reasons have become murky-- wonders what HD is going to look like ten years hence. He remembers when old footage like this looked crisp enough to his college student's eyes.

"Right, right," Bobby mutters, in a way that might make a less familiar colleague assume he isn't listening. Thankfully, Munoz knows better, aware that Drake-- called the BAU's 'Iceman' for his inability to move beyond cocktail party charm with just about anyone-- speaks aloud for just this purpose. He wants others to throw in, but never actually bothers (or perhaps thinks) to point this out. "Loss of community, loss of context, picked up as the poster child for corporate philanthropy in a maneuver clearly calculated to counterbalance the questionable optics. I end up as the ward of a wealthy banker--"

"Who just so happens to be a sadistic pedophile," Armando finishes, feeling no remorse at all for killing the feed before it can play another disgustingly canned interview with the financier in question. Darwin has seen a lot of sick shit-- it comes with the job description, even if you're not a field agent-- and he'll see this case through to the gritty end like all the rest, but a break from this particular lacquer-polish monster would not go amiss. 

 

Long dead or not, there's something disturbing about this Shaw character that lingers like rot on the back of the tongue-- a smell that is not a smell at all. Evil, Munoz knows, has no particular look, nationality, or religious affiliation; like sorrow and hunger, its no stranger to any corner of the Earth. It's not even the slick, almost Hollywood branding of the banker that gets to him, or the seemingly good-natured way the man himself spins information, as if he's letting you in on joke of false intimacy where everyone else is the punchline. His eyes do not even possess the disturbing emptiness Darwin has seen in other offenders, that capering reptilian intelligence. Sebastian Shaw is just loose and relaxed, unrepentant because he genuinely believes there's nothing to repent for, smiling as if the moral structures of humanity are no more than the quaint attempts at tool use one sees in ancient hominids. 'Yeah,' that grin says, 'and I _liked it_ , too.'

It's entirely possible Armando's been at this job a little too long, but there's a reason he doesn't work for NCMEC despite contributing several major breaks to computer sex trafficking cases. The day the kids stop bothering him is the day he should definitely give up hunting down the digital dirty secrets of pervs and psychos and start of the trail of something else. Like refurbishing classic pinball machines and arcade games, or finally getting his hands on a Bentley Autotron. From a fiduciary standpoint, a classic car like that is on a whole other level from the antique radios, clocks, and sound systems that are Darwin's hobby-- but hey, a man has to dream. 

 

"That he got ahold of that child so quietly and easily is proof that, for certain people, _anything_ is for sale," says Special Agent Elizabeth Braddock from her place in the passenger seat up front. She never once looks up from her laptop, where her blunt and well-kept nails are tapping out a consistent beat on the keyboard. There has never been another interagency and media liaison who cuts through red tape quite like she does, and her tongue is as sharp as the katanas and other blades she collects. Darwin didn't even know some people still made their own weapons outside of 'Forged in Fire' until he discovered she saves all her vacation time for the CanIRON conference. Right now, there's a dainty set of black earbuds coyly camouflaged in her ebony hair, but that means nothing. Yes, she may seem absorbed in monitoring police chatter or keeping tabs on local news coverage, but she also has the ability to suddenly land in the middle of your conversation with both size five boots squarely on your metaphorical throat. G-d forbid she catch you referring to her as 'Betsy' or 'Liz'. Munoz is given to understand the family she doesn't speak to calls her the former, but no one at the BAU (or Quantico in general) would dare address her as anything other than 'Agent Braddock' or 'Ma'am'. 

"Well, Shaw certainly did expedite the adoption process with a healthy application of shell-company donations," Armando agrees, casting an eye at the frankly depressingly tangled forensic accounting summary from the 199- investigation of Schmidt and Sons. It's a disservice to the thousands of honest, compassionate social workers and foster parents out there, that a few corrupt individuals in the system can draw such disgusting vultures from outside. Like cancerous cells, allowing a virus to rage through an innocent body unchecked. It makes for a sick story-- a PR disaster. And why not report it, play it up like it negates all the good deeds done every day? No one wants to hear the fluff anyway.  
It's entirely possible this job has made Armando just a _bit_ excessively cynical. 

"Fifteen months and a tour of duty in one _very_ expensive private school later," Bobby continues, without a hint of irony or acknowledgement of the conversation around him. "I've killed four people--" he turns his head briefly when the cargo door in the back opens to reveal Scott Summers, "-- with a Buck knife."

"And an antique Luger," Braddock reminds them tonelessly. Relatively uninterested in firearms beyond her service weapon, even she had to raise an incredulous eyebrow at the police inventory of Shaw's weapons collection. The banker had a definite gun fetish, the more indiscriminately destructive the better. To say nothing of his penchant for truly disturbing World War II 'memorabilia'-- even the CSI report disconcertedly notes that, from the context of Shaw's collections, you would have thought the _Germans_ won. More fuel on the PR fire that had consumed Schmidt and Sons as news of the murders kicked off an avalanche of revelations, each one more unsavory than the last. 

 

Climbing in with take-out bags from the local greasy spoon in hand, Scott shakes his head. Moira McTaggart-- their supervisory agent-- is right behind him, fresh from her talk with Xavier. "I think use of the Luger was incidental. According to Lehnsherr's testimony, Shaw was threatening to violate him with it. They struggled, the gun went off, and Lehnsherr finished his wounded rapist off with the knife while the man was down. It's the only way a boy his size could have gotten the upper hand. That part, I believe."

Darwin glances at the already uninspiring takeout containers as they are unveiled, stomach-- empty though it is-- roiling with nausea. Christ-on-a-sidecar. Shaw is perhaps not the goriest unsub Munoz has encountered, but he's quickly vying for the number one spot as most predatory and sadistic, in every sense of both words. Since joining the BAU, Armando has encountered (thankfully from behind the safely of his computer screens) chronic poisoners, sociopaths whose sexuality hinged on pain and/or death for the other party, family annihilators, and one cannibal. Even those inarguably despicable individuals would likely think themselves above the depredations to which Shaw subjected his ward-- and eleven other children named in the report. Munoz has seen, too, the amount of security sometimes required to keep child-rapists alive in prison. That's a torture Shaw missed out on, along with judgement from a jury of his peers, and the tech specialist carefully squashes the notion that Lehnsherr dispatched with the offender with more clarity than randomly selected jurors ever could. The system is flawed-- Munoz knows and accepts this, as he accepts the flaws and sad failings of human beings and all they have built. But you have to believe in it, believe in _something_ that might someday approach the ideal. Impossible, like the bird that moves a mountain rock by rock to the other side of the world. You'll fall short; the slimmest margin of error will still do disservice to what you longed to achieve.  
'Unless you _try_ ,' he'd explained to his sister once, when she remarked on the toll of his job, 'the call of the bottle or the void or that bullet in the chamber of your gun will get a hell of a lot louder than the sound of you bang'n your head against that wall.'

The sad fact of the matter is that they may never know the true breadth of Shaw's abuse, for many of the images from his 'photo collection' are still with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Archived, but nameless.

 

"The prior torture Lehnsherr experienced and the immanent threat to his life are all a pretty solid argument for self-defense," Drake acknowledges. "That probably would have flown with any jury. Even executing Marko might have garnered sympathy for the boy, given the man's involvement with Shaw. It was the other bodies they couldn't get over. I think it's significant that Lehnsherr discarded the gun so readily. He went upstairs and killed three victims that physically outclassed him. He may have been able to intimidate Charles with the knife when the other boy stopped cooperating with the 'game', but controlling Sharon or Marko? He had no way of being certain they'd make themselves vulnerable via their separate overindulgences."

Braddock shakes her head ruefully, "But they did, and it was the perfect storm."

"Interviews of other tenants made it pretty clear most people knew Sharon hit the sauce too hard, even if she was never sloppy-drunk in public," Darwin points out, a PDF of the canvas report popping up obligingly on the top right screen. 

"She fought back," Scott adds, "but he had the drop on her. Same thing for Marko-- sleeping off a coke trip, too disoriented to fend off the first few blows. Lehnsherr made those count. 

"The medical examiner said Cain Marko's throat was likely slit before he was fully awake." Moira presses her lips into a thin white line. "He was an efficient killer even then."

 

"Thankfully, we're holding steady at five now," their media liaison says, snapping her laptop closed. Turning in her seat, she addresses her colleagues past the headrest imperiously. "The Dearborn County Sheriff was able to confirm the truck-stop footage-- a woman and her five year-old daughter pulled out the parking lot two minutes before Lehnsherr went in."

"Two minutes is an awfully narrow window to chalk up to luck," Summers mutters, sounding almost annoyed by the inconsistency. Handing a carton of turkey burger to Moira, he asks, "Speaking of luck, how did things go with Xavier?"

"I'm thinking luck had little to do with the mom and daughter's near miss," she replies in a seeming non sequitur. "Lehnsherr waited for them to leave."

"He's suddenly squeamish about killing women?" the other agent asks, eyebrow raised over his unnecessary sunglasses. "I think Sharon Marko would beg to differ."

Their leader shoots Summers a level look, "I'm convinced that, twelve year hiatus or no, Charles Xavier is still the person who knows Lehnsherr best. We had an interesting conversation about moral relativity and the exploitive media."

"He's _defending_ Lehnsherr?" Drake asks, mouthful of fries in no way muffling his disbelief. "Stand-mandated therapy indicated Xavier understood--"

"No," she holds up a hand. "He said Lehnsherr has his own code of ethics, warped though it may be. Our victimology will have to acknowledge that not all of his targets necessarily correspond one-for-one to those he holds responsible for his own pain. If surrogacy factors in at all."

"You don't think he mutilated Stryker and the two attendants because their behavior or potential bullying reminded him of Shaw?" Braddock inquires.

"Charles called the bullying," McTaggart informs them. "That may have been easy to deduce from his interactions with Stryker, but he had no way of knowing about the write-ups on Creed and Kelly. Nor did we release the fact the bodies were mutilated postmortem."

 

"Something doesn't jive here," Scott says, and Darwin's determined sucking on the straw of his lemon-lime soda (the only thing his stomach really feels up to right now) does not drown out Braddock's snort. Summers has been perseverating-- _sermonizing_ , Munoz thinks privately-- on this ever since he read the police report and Xavier's initial interview for the Shaw/Marko murders. The testimony of a six year-old is questionable at the best of times, hence the fact it was deemed inadmissible for Lehnsherr's trial, and McCoy's initial assessment had been correct. It took months to piece together the sequence of events from Charles' perspective. Distance, every law enforcement officer knows, is the enemy of memory-- what Xavier remembers now may be only tangentially related to what happened that night, and through no deliberate obfuscation on the young man's part. Hell, if he blocked the whole damn thing out, Darwin wouldn't blame him. You do what you have must in order to stay sane. 

So yeah, nothing 'jives' here, as Scott so cynically put it. This whole case is a hall of mirrors, a funhouse with disturbing properties where no one exiting resembles what they were when they came in. Before Lehnsherr's prison-break, everything looked in order-- the best possible outcome that could be expected given the long and sordid road behind. The 'Elementary School Executioner' had been a model inmate during his tenure in both juvenile and adult incarceration. The single incident report in his jacket was, according to the testimony of several other prisoners, the result of an attack perpetrated _against_ Lehnsherr. That the then seventeen year-old had disarmed and significantly damaged his opponent still doesn't indicate the level of violence and escalation they've seen since the escape. Perhaps the outcome was truly bad enough to justify the inmate's early transfer to an adult facility, or perhaps Stryker-- already vying for the position as head of Psychiatry at Woodhaven Correctional-- had pulled a few strings. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility, and the doctor had never made any secret of his desire to 'explore the treatment of a sociopath of Lehnsherr's caliber'. 

 

"Oh, I'm not denying there's a correlation," Moira says. "And I know you--" she waves her fork vaguely in Scott's direction, "-- have your doubts about Xavier's perspective."

Summers grumbles, "I'm not saying his bias is _conscious_." 

"-- but I'm willing to take his suggestions at this helpful face value, for now. The insight needs to be integrated into the profile. We have a goal-oriented killer who has dispatched many of his victims very effectively, with a minimum of fuss or pain. That any multination of the bodies takes place postmortem rules out sexual sadism."

"So… what? He's a wound collector, and any damage he does to the corpses represents the level of culpability he holds the victim to? Vengeance doesn't work if the person who wrongs you isn't there to feel the pain." Bobby taps his pen against his chin, frowning over this.

I'm thinking more about Lehnsherr's initial upbringing," their most seasoned agent clarifies, picking up a folder to glance over the images within. One of them is the killer's third grade school portrait, but Darwin notices she actually flips past this to the-- frankly adorable, even from an objective standpoint-- photo of Charles Xavier at age six. "Spoiling the body shows disrespect. Contempt. He views all the murders as 'necessary' for one reason or another, but certain ones required an extra step."

"Like staking a body so it doesn't rise from the grave," Armando murmurs thoughtfully. "Double-tap rule. He wants to make sure the monsters stay down."

"Given the state of Stryker's body when it was found," Scott remarks grimly, "I'd say that particular devil is definitely down for the count." He turns to Moira, "Say this guy is some sort of vigilante, dispatching anyone who gets in the way of 'staking' those he perceives as villains. Do we know what his endgame is? Are there any defendants from the original Schmidt and Sons sex crimes cases that are still free and alive-- people Shaw may have passed Lehnsherr around to? And, if so, are we wasting resources by being here?" His gesture encompasses the van, the environs, and presumably their less-than-thrilled hosts. "Xavier might not even be a viable potential target."

Darwin and Braddock exchange a look in the sudden silence that descends, but it's Bobby who breaks it with a squeak of his takeout styrofoam and a sigh.

"I guess that depends on how our guy" Drake jerks his thumb at the picture on the monitor, his tone a typically bizarre mixture of carelessness and gravitas, "feels about being locked up for twelve years while his best friend went on to lead a pretty cushy life."

* * * * * *

From the unpublished manuscript of _Evil's Infancy: The Psychopathy of Erik Lehnsherr, Child Murderer by William Stryker, MD, PhD._ :

We must be careful not to confuse the abuse Lehnsherr suffered with his _response_ to it. That it is lamentable the system failed this boy-- along with many other innocent children victimized by Shaw-- is undeniable. To believe that Lehnsherr's sickness would have remained otherwise inert without this 'catalyst', however, is the height of folly. 

It is no longer politic in academia, or society at large, to speak of inherent traits. Of the failure of certain individuals to achieve the even the most basic humanity beginning in the womb. These blights, which might otherwise have been remedied by nature, thrive in our age of medical advancement when we extend these scientific gifts without weighing the merit of the recipient. I have uncovered no family history of disturbance for Lehnsherr, nor is there any documentation that his gestation or birth were in any way compromised. This would lead many to question my earlier statement but, indeed, the lack of evidence does not detract from my point. Rather, it proves that there are those moving amongst us whose natural disposition towards violence is incredibly difficult to detect. They may look as you or I, but make no mistake-- these individuals, Lehnsherr's psychological kin, are not capable of basic human empathy, tenderness, or love.

* * * * * *

Night falls in an upscale neighborhood just outside of West Brattleboro, Vermont. It falls like a curtain, a veil of darkening blue gradients-- an effect which can be reproduced with even the cheapest of watercolors, if the artist is determined. If he has enough skill, and enough time.

There are places which are exempt from Time, pockets consisting of a single static moment. People take thick concrete cubes and brick up around these pockets, making buildings to contain them, as if they fear an invasion or infection of this pseudo-chronology. The world humans have constructed is like an orange peel tenuously arranged over a core of objective 'reality'-- a concept masking emptiness which, if viewed directly, would cause a collapse like that of a star self-devouring. It does not tolerate the unexplained. All must be neat and tidy, black and white. Cause must precede effect. There is no iron-clad ending you are rushing towards-- no matter what you think you see on the horizon.

 

See this, then:

The third house from the corner in this night-shaded, well-to-do subdivision. Yes, there-- the one that backs up against the remaining thick acreage of woods. There are a few holes along this treeline, deep and fresh, but never mind. It's really too dark to see them, even in the warm yellow glow from the house.  
The lights are all on, but no one is home.

The owner is dead in the living room, pulled neatly away from any visibility via window or patio door. His death was one of true surprise; concussed from behind, throat cut with a butcher's precision while he lay unconscious. The bleeding made a mess, of course, but that could not be helped. (He will be found tomorrow by an ex-wife who, irate beyond their usual respect for boundaries, will let herself in for a very unpleasant surprise.) There are photographs on the wall of better times, which show two children. Where ever they are now, it isn't here, and-- in the mind of the one assessing these pictures-- those who took them from this home likely can't be blamed for doing so. 

The killer of the man is a time-traveler, a shadow. He is a stranger and, while he has no particular power to foresee tomorrow, he does know that the person who bought this house-- _whoever_ bought this house-- was doomed. They were dead the moment they signed the mortgage. Bad luck, synchronicity, the threads of fate pulling tight. But we mustn't have that, just as we must not have naughty little boys tearing at the pretty wrapping of this harsh and petty world. Into the prison-pocket with you, slam!  
Outside of time, and the ultimate time-out.

 

This shadow-stranger is currently in the master bedroom, toweling off from the unspeakable luxury of a hot shower. The clothes he'd taken from the truck stop had been covered in blood, and further ruined by dirt besides. He buried them outside, in the hole he dug while looking for that which sentenced the home-owner to death. Once, the whole subdivision had been just bramble and wood, and a monster (a _man_ -shaped monster) had hidden treasure there. If the property lines had been drawn a little differently, if the backhoe had moved a little to the left, that treasure might even now be gone. But luck, or coincidence, or destiny-- contraband the time-traveler has brought with him from his dungeon-- prevailed. 

The hiding spot remained unscathed all these years and-- while the killing of the man in the house is not something he enjoyed-- the shadow need only look at the pictures on the wall, the pretty lacquer of school picture day, to know that murder likely prevented something worse. He is no stranger to those tributes demanded by father-things; tears, terror, flesh, and… Well. Now there is a mud-caked sack of gold bars and bills wrapped in plastic bags thrown on the bed in the adjacent room. Old sacrifices repurposed to help the traveler along.  
The Shaw-Monster believed in being prepared but-- alas and oh hoh!-- is too dead to take advantage of this foresight.

 

The traveler-- who has come all this way to escape the number on his coveralls, to become again Erik Lensherr

( _Not Shaw. Never Shaw._ )

\--smiles inwardly at the thought The grin would actually be a sharp grimace of satisfaction should it be physically expressed. The killer's face remains blank, however, and not merely because he is currently shaving with an efficient if unpracticed air. He must concentrate, yes; he was taught and allowed to use a safety razor during his final years at the juvenile facility, but it has been quite some time since the Woodhaven administration allowed him such toiletries. Stryker deemed his high-profile patient too 'sadistically clever' to be allowed many of the every day objects already rendered smooth or inert for use in psychiatric wards. Like the wave of a malign wand-- gone were the stubby kindergarten Crayola pencils and their equally childish sharpener. Gone where the pens used for correspondence school testing, though increased reliance on computer-based learning-- even for inmates-- was considerable cause for gratitude. 

The Styker's appointment as department head had come three years ago, with all the flavor of a pretender sprawling himself across the the throne. Erik-- who felled the King of Monsters-- knew upon meeting the doctor so eager to 'treat' him consternation but no fear. He had worked hard for his privileges, or so his lawyers claimed and the review boards reluctantly admitted, and there had been only so much the new administration could take away without direct cause. It had taken him half a decade to get off the violent ward and, while the prevailing opinion was that he would never see the light of day, he was still entitled to rewards for good behavior. Too young when convicted to be denied parole consideration outright, they had still begun trotting him out four review once he turned sixteen. Did they really think him foolish enough to hope for release, even that first time? Guilty as charged, but remanded to psychiatric care. Yet they-- the endless parade of be-robed judges and smartly suited foot soldiers of the justice system-- somehow thought his daily compliance meant also that he would smile imploringly, fain contrition for the prize he'd earned with blood and sweat and suffering. 

He would not-- he _will_ not-- apologize for clawing his way to liberty. Not the physical emancipation he has achieved now, true, but the knowledge that certain hands would no longer touch certain flesh, and that foul thing to whom all childhood fears bowed was now consigned to the dirt. Let all prison predators take their shots-- his body became his own again on that long ago September night. For such luxuries, Erik would gladly forgo the fading memory of the world.  
Nor is he particularly compliant in at least one aspect: he hasn't spoken more than a few absolutely necessary words in years. 

It was the little things Styker targeted instead, paltry to those in the mythical kingdom of Outside, but worth so much in the protracted moments-seconds-days of confinement. Less time in the yard, or in the lackadaisical free-for-all that posed as 'art therapy'. Lehnsherr had been the psychiatrist's favorite but by no means _only_ target. The doctor had, after all, taken away Toad's tiny plastic frog (the prized possession for which the serial arsonist had been nicknamed), and he was never verse to 'testing the ripeness' of female patients. He staged appeals to Erik's vanity, fear, and base desires by turns-- with no success. Creed and Kelly-- orderlies already happy to pinch, box ears, and occasionally pay 'night calls'-- were sent as emissaries. 'Bad cops' from whom the doctor then offered rescue.  
Styker is a hostage taker by principle, but an amateur through sheer lack of insight.  
Or, Erik thinks as he carefully sees to the auburn brush on chin, the man _was_. Had been. Bless us, oh minor gods of grammar, for the gift of the past present progressive. It allows for continued satisfaction even after rendering someone decidedly _past tense_.

 

Having completed his ablutions with the razor of another dead man, Lehnsherr washes his face thoroughly, idly drawing a strong but elegant finger through the remaining condensation on the mirror. Sheer habit allows him to almost perfectly execute on of the stylized silhouette animals that gained him moderate notoriety on the ward, despite the odd medium. Most of the nurses thought his ark's worth repertoire 'just darling', from the obscure dinosaurs (a sign of his arrested development, said Stryker) to birds, horses, and marsupials. Present day predators like wolves and lions were to be avoided, as they were invariably misinterpreted. Instead, he stuck to creatures he would almost certainly never see: lemurs, penguins, foxes, and sea-going mammals.  
And, of course, his signature design: a perfect, clever little mouse, such as one might find in a child's picture book. 

(The nurses also said, though never in front of Erik, that it was ironic and perhaps a bit depressing that such lovely illustrations could come from the hand of a convicted felon.)

Erik stares at the  
( _myschka_ )  
doodle briefly, before wiping everything away with his hand. He is only a shadow anyway, a temporal interloper stepping on butterflies. No matter the havoc and turbulence caused elsewhere-- all stemming from a single twitch of delicate wings-- he has a path to follow, and it is all laid out before him. It is no longer necessary to dither and pass the day. His sophomoric distraction is just that-- an attempt to avoid examining the unveiled yet unfamiliar topography of his own face. His eyes are a green that borders on hazel, like Mama's. Is he remembering correctly when he thinks he might have his father's chin?  
Not Shaw, who sometimes made him use that term, but his real father. Abba. 

 

Abba believed in keeping neat and tidy, and Shaw always said that the clothes made the man. So both voices-- the proverbial cartoon angel and devil, if life where only so simple-- are satisfied by the contents of the bedroom closet. Naked and utterly unperturbed by this, Lehnsherr throws the door wide to better examine the fine collared shirts, crisp trousers, and suit coats of expensive cloth. In keeping with both the tone of the neighborhood and the office Erik methodically tossed downstairs, there is also a tie-rack arrayed in muted but high-quality silk. The seemingly random operations of circumstance are still on the escapee's side, as it has been from the moment of his golden opportunity. Even the pants, while admittedly short, are not noticeably amiss on his lanky form. The shirts are not a bad fit either; a bit tight in the shoulders, but _very_ respectable. If you look like you're well-off and you know where you're going, Shaw always said, people are not likely to bother you.

_'The notion that the appearance of propriety equates to godliness, thus warding off evil, is an inheritance from our country's roots in Puritanism, and a dangerous one at that.'_  
Now the slightest of smiles truly does touch Erik's lips, copied perfectly by the half-stranger in the floor-length closet mirror. They are Charles' words, for all his name was last amongst lengthy list of those who authored the article. Lehnsherr came across it by sheer chance, combing through JSTOR for one of his own college courses. Precocious little thing-- Erik remembers the disconcerted silences of adults, particularly teachers, when Charles would chime in with some mature insight or point out a philosophical inconsistency. On stifling summer afternoons, when Cain commandeered the TV and the au pair was too flustered with errands Ms. Marko assigned, he and Charles would hang out at the library, losing themselves in the great jungle of stacks. Sometimes, Lehnsherr would read very quietly to his friend while the other boy closed his eyes to savor the relief of A/C. 

The inescapable barometric pressure oppressed young Xavier almost as much as Cain's refusal close the windows or turn on a fan, so that brightness of the day stabbed as it shone on each and every one of the city's gleaming surfaces. Irritated by this delicacy yet suffused in the glow of Charles' dependence on him ( _he_ knew how to look after Myschka, how to coax a smile out through the pain or get him to swallow Sharon's endless vitamins without sicking them back up) could occasionally be prevailed upon to let his friend choose the tale. Then the fare would be H. Rider Haggard or Edgar Rice Burroughs-- high adventures through lost lands and convoluted Edwardian sentences that sometimes made Lehnsherr feel as though _he_ had the migraine. Egyptians, and ape-men, and Martians-- oh my! As with the story of the mouse on the moon, Charles protested the latter inclusion, but Erik wasn't giving up airship battles just because Xavier looked down on the notion of Red Planet canals. Despite the younger boy's higher comprehension level, it was better Erik read even on days that were headache-free. Charles had forged so far ahead of his classmates that his grasp of phonics was woeful indeed.

 

_("People are strange," says Charles-- the real and true Charles who is always present with Erik in memory, where all the clocks read RIGHT NOW. They're sitting hip-to-hip in their usual hiding place amidst the disused shelves of Medieval History, having earned the questioning looks of two rare adults who'd just come upon them. The smaller boy had smiled-- winning, placating-- only to receive those stares which indicate children out of place _must_ be guilty of something. Erik only rolled his eyes, anticipating a visit from the librarian once the 'violation' was reported. He doesn't feel like retreating in advance though, sore from Shaw's enthusiasm the prior night and currently lulled by the cool air and Charles' warm, innocent weight beside him._

_Shaw doesn't care what Erik does during the day, as long as the penthouse remains spotless and dinner is on the table when the banker gets home. That Erik must 'earn his keep' goes without saying, and cannot be included amongst those chores he might mistakenly or disobediently shirk. Shaw has proven, quite thoroughly, that there is nothing 'optional' about the boy's primary purpose. Allowing Erik to tag along with with the Xavier boy saves the hassle of acquiring an au pair for his own ward, and Shaw rests safe in the knowledge that he and 'Daddy Kurt' are of like minds. No one will remark or ask awkward questions about Erik's bruises when Charles has so many of his own._

_"They'll tattle," Lehnsherr says disinterestedly, nodding in the direction of the mezzanine. After all, that's what adults do-- snitch on rule-breakers and blithely fail to follow the laws they claim are so inviolate. But because Charles' smile-- even if it was the nice-china-best-behavior one-- faded so quickly, he teases, "Even your 'cherubic' looks won't give us a pass."_

_Predictably, a blush fires under Charles' pale cheeks. A week ago, after one of Marko's seemingly endless cocktail parties, he'd made the mistake of telling Erik about the senator's wife who went into raptures over how 'positively cherubic' the little Xavier boy was. The older boy has been ragging on him ever since, and the end of Charles' patience is clearly indicated by the wrinkle of distaste on that freckled nose._

_Quietly, the younger boy does concede, "I suppose so."_

_Going back to the Children's Library will be a pain, Erik thinks, making his own face while he jiggles the massive books spread over their laps. Predatory Animals of Asia is filled with detailed anatomical drawings and uncensored information about hunting-- and reproductive, ugh!-- behavior. Lehnsherr won't say 'no' to a juvenile picture book about knights or heavy machinery but, if you want the good stuff, _real_ pictures and detailed information, you've got to filch from the adult section and make yourself scarce. Tipping the book so his friend can see, the older boy draws an admiring finger along the cross-section photo of a tiger's powerful teeth and jaws._

_"People _are_ very strange," he agrees after a moment. In a musing whisper, he continues, "They always tell you to smile."_

_Charles nods sagely. Mrs. Marko is forever going on about keeping nice white teeth and never having a second chance to make a first impression. Shaw has invested in pediatric dental upkeep for Erik, as well. He's not running some third-world brothel, he says, and the merchandise should look good. Both he and Kurt tell the boys to smile for _those_ pictures, though Shaw also says Charles is very pretty when he cries._

_"But when most animals show their teeth, it's a bad thing." Erik concludes, not without some relish; "If you smiled right up close at a tiger, he'd probably bite off your face.")_

 

Having fished an undershirt from the bureau drawers, Erik selects one of adepressingly vast series of starched white shirts. There are a few in blue and even one in purple, but it is best not to stand out even that much. He buttons the shirt up the same way people do their imaginations, though with far less hurry. He may be in flight from predators, but he is a predator too, and knows that stillness is sometimes required to let the forest lull settle in once more. While nothing is certain, he is relatively secure in the knowledge that night has fallen completely now and the house-- large, built with the clear expectation of status and the requisite two-point-five children-- will remain empty. Lehnsherr had no need to riffle through the office as he did but, in addition to confusing the issue for investigators, it yielded a few useful items and confirmed his suspicion that unfortunate homeowner lived alone. The other bedrooms are in various states of deconstruction, children's toys and off-season clothes in boxes, the clear second or third wave of abandoning ship. At the bottom of the tie-rack, Erik spots a length of silk atypically bright and less worn than the rest. Against an almost neon blue background, gold threads repeat a dizzying pattern of '#1 Dad'. 

Perhaps, he concedes to the cooling body downstairs. And perhaps not. He does not touch the tie nor any of its brethren, having no idea how to properly knot such things and not wanting his attempt to stand out. There are cufflinks in a dish on the bureau, and those he had no issue with. The end result is a tall man who could easily have passed amidst the wall street wolves with whom Shaw socialized or stood (looking politely bored) just off the squash court with Kurt Marko while his wife played. A man of ledgers and checkbooks, of PADs and nine-to-five and 'really, honey, you figure it out-- I'm late'. 

 

Erik does not know if others  
_(_one_ other)_  
would find him handsome, though he does know his body is powerful and the musculature well-defined. What had there been to do but read, learn, and build a form which could defend itself? The key to wind and intricate clock, that would turn the ignition of some great engine, might be absent-- but that does not excuse allowing it to fall into disrepair. He had waited, silently maintaining readiness, though long where the years he endured knowing where his catalyst lie while being utterly unable to reach it. There is a capacity for belief in Lehnsherr that is not quite analogous to faith. 'Faith' and Erik have been on poor terms too long to ever speak again. Instead, he has brought with him out of exile a terrible sense of _purpose_ , knowing his duty instantly in that moment of delayed prison transport and the inattention of irritated guards.

Satisfied with his choices for this high-stakes game of 'dress-up', Erik locates the remote for the disconcertingly thin television by the bed. Much of the world has changed during his time away

_('Knock it off, boys!' He remembers the Big Kids on the ice, long before the night of fire. 'Five for fighting!')_

but he has kept himself as informed as possible, and he is not a fool. The flatscreen takes longer to come to life than the TV's of his youth, but he takes the time to stretch out on the decadent softness of the bed, sealed bags of money and bars of gold beside him like a companion bought and paid for.  
A whore. They called him such, once.

He lays back against the pillows, aware of forensic countermeasures but largely unconcerned with them. What need has he to conceal or deny his crimes, if crimes they be? There is a vague sense of pity for the necessity of some of his kills, but no more than that. Onus, not remorse-- distant as the feelings he pushed from himself the first time Shaw took him hunting. No more than a flicker, guttering and gone.

 

The television is already set to one of the local news stations, and Erik is neither surprised nor impressed to find he himself is the lead story. For a time, he drowses, noting idly that police have not located (or have not admitted as much) the body of the orderly drafted or the car Lehnsherr employed for escape. The FBI is involved; state troopers are combing woodlands and forming strategic road-blocks. The escapee actually snorts a little at this. He cannot drive; an irksome limitation, but also a bleakly funny one. It will not matter-- he has an iron-clad ending, a future event 

_(a date, some might say)_

towards which all present factors will be forced to arrange themselves. This by no means excuses sloppiness or ill-considered action, but it draws Lehnsherr as magnetic north draws a compass. Irresistible and-- 

 

Awake the moment the collection of syllables reaches his ears, Erik sits bolt upright, entire form tensed. On screen, the reporter is providing helpful voice-over for footage from earlier in the afternoon. The media circus-- which Erik is well acquainted with from his own trial-- has amassed itself outside the gates of a truly atrocious piece of architecture. It takes a moment, as the camera zooms in and the eye adjusts enough to ignore the house, for Lehnsherr to realize what he is actually looking at. As if to echo his thoughts, the caption changes to 'FBI ARRIVES AT HOME OF FORMER CHILD-VICTIM'. The confirmation barely registers, for Erik has disregarded almost every pixilated form on the screen, focusing on a sole silhouette almost lost amongst the uniformed police, suited agents, and the mass of film equipment. Forced to a lower perspective than the others, the face never the less cleverly peeks out from the mass of bodies, discerning a path for the chair to navigate. Even the most zealous members of the crowd part for the streamlined but unmistakable equipment. He looks politely regretful, this young man, as if he hates to inconvenience those who have imposed themselves upon him but he simply _must_ be on his way. A taller form 

_(a form that escaped _unscathed_)_

trails behind to block the view, gesticulating wildly, punctuating a chant of 'no comment' with various legal threats and a peppering of scatology. What wit the black universe has, its gaping maw open in laughter which is also a scream! How kind of it to show Lehnsherr so clearly exactly where he needs to go. He might dissolve into hysterical chuckles himself, if he were in any way used to making noise. Gallows humor-- and the majority of the people in the shot wear nooses about their neck which only he, traveler and outlaw, can see. After a moment, the bothersome form ceases blocking Erik's view. The party-- two boys, a burly attendant, and at least three federal agents-- has reached the ramp leading up to the house, and the film crew is reduced to zooming aggressively as they poke the lens through the wrought iron gates. There's Charles, face tilted up in the afternoon sunlight, looking much healthier and happier than the last time Erik caught a privileged glimpse. 

That had been footage from outside a hospital, played on some trashy afternoon talkshow. The cafeteria at the juvenile facility, where they locked even the TV's in cages and bolted them to the wall. How pale Charles had been then-- how dreadfully thin, with his hair shorn from surgery. 

Rage comes to Erik now as it did then, and there is no hapless inmate to bear the blows that would help it disburse, to blame later for his own lapse of control. Lehnsherr has more mastery now-- he does not even fist his hands in the fabric of his trousers. The anger is not a fire in him, nor is it red. Red is blood and blood is _cheap_ , given how freely it flows throughout the world. Instead he feels the fury like a mist rising up, yellow, always yellow, like the dreadful faded stars Shaw showed him with such glee, or the quivering fat beneath the pelts of the animals he was forced to skin. 

Charles has a hand up to calm his agitated companion, touching the other young man's elbow lightly. Looking at Stark, the recipient of that blue gaze and boyishly conspiratorial smile, Erik knows Charles has already forgiven the man. The cousin's posture, the faint tension in the hand which hovers by but does not actually touch the wheelchair, tells Lehnsherr also that Xavier likely does not understand how much his absolution wounds. Erik himself prefers obligations which can be extracted or paid, and the delicious bondage of rare promises given to those precious enough to deserve them. 

Being the wronged party, it is perhaps within Charles' rights to forgive Tony Stark. That does not, however, negate the debt incurred by the older boy's sheer carelessness.

 

Erik intends to ensure Stark is _very_ well acquainted with this distinction in the near future. 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Expanded Trigger Warning:** While reviewing the case, the event which caused Erik to lash out in self-defense is described: namely, Shaw's threat to penetrate him with an object that is also a weapon. This is no more than a sentence, but please consider your own limits. I feel bad for having written it! ^^;
> 
> Hey! There are actually no other End Notes for this chapter-- isn't that amazing? *checks for rain of frogs* If I could bother you a bit more to comment or leave kudos, I'd be very appreciative. I love hearing from you, even if it's only to tell me you found one of the frogs I just caused. ^_~
> 
> (On a semi-related note, if you enjoy Tony in this story-- not that he was around much for this chapter-- I've started an MCU-verse Steve/Tony fic called [Kingdoms of Misrule](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11753241/chapters/26489616). Yes, I'm shameless. My mom told me that a long time ago.


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